


the wolves in your reflections

by Childish_Midget



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Again, Anxiety, Child Inquisitor (Dragon Age), Dalish Elven Culture and Customs, Everyone is a parent now, Fluff and Angst, Gen, Harm to Children, Hurt/Comfort, Kid Fic, Kidquisitor, Mage Inquisitor (Dragon Age), Minor Character Death, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Self-Esteem Issues, Slow Burn, Solas is Fen'Harel (Dragon Age), Spirits, Trauma, also fully grown adults ready to throw hands with an 8 year old, elven mysteries, fen'harel has made a MISTAKE, not joking some wack shit going on, parental figure cassandra, we like smacking bald heads in this household, we stan cassandra, we stan varric
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-31
Updated: 2021-02-11
Packaged: 2021-03-10 21:15:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 32,054
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28443777
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Childish_Midget/pseuds/Childish_Midget
Summary: “Amae?”“Hm?”“Promise me we’ll always be together?”She chuckles.“Of course, da’len.".Athros only had three goals in life. One - get a puppy. Two - find all the ancient ruins in Thedas. Three - To stay with Amae forever.Being eight years old, such goals seemed achievable. He has all the time in the world after all.However, when his mother's clan requests that they go spy on a certain human Conclave in the Frostbacks, his predictions of his own future are thrown into a maelstrom, with no hope of ever emergeing. Now marked, he has to navigate the politics of shems, battle ancient Tevinter magisters, and uphold a title that does not belong to him.Luckily - or perhaps unluckily - he will not be alone."Wolves have always danced among us, da'len. You need only look in the mirrors as they pass, and they will be revealed."
Relationships: Blackwall & Inquisitor (Dragon Age), Blackwall/Josephine Montilyet, Cole & Inquisitor (Dragon Age), Inquisitor & Cassandra Pentaghast, Inquisitor & Cullen Rutherford, Inquisitor & Dorian Pavus, Inquisitor & Josephine Montilyet, Inquisitor & Leliana (Dragon Age), Inquisitor & Sera (Dragon Age), Inquisitor & Solas (Dragon Age), Inquisitor & The Iron Bull (Dragon Age), Inquisitor & Varric Tethras, Inquisitor & Vivienne (Dragon Age), Iron Bull/Dorian Pavus
Comments: 41
Kudos: 65





	1. Dreamers find their Ways by Moonlight

“Amae?”

“What is it, Child?”

“Tell me a story?”

Amae’s warm chuckle rings around the clearing as she pokes at the fire with her staff, her pendant falling from her coat to sway rhythmically. “What story, da’len?[1]”

Athros' face scrunches up as he thinks, eyes tracking the flames as they dance and crackle. “Tell me of spirits, where do they come from?”

Amae hums, taking her staff from the fire, and placing it beside her, “That is quite the complicated question, are you sure you’ll remember the answer?”

Athros pouts, scooting closer to the fire for warmth. The nights are cold in Ferelden, something he had to learn the hard way after taking the warm nights in the Emerald Graves for granted.

“I always remember…” he trails off, looking up at his mother. Her smile is teasing, gentle. It shifts the patterns on her face. He prefers the patterns when she smiles… he frowns, pinching his own cheeks. How does he look when he smiles? His frown deepens. When would _he_ get the pretty patterns? _I’ll ask Amae for a mirror… a small one. Maybe the shems will be willing to trade with her this time._

“What goes through your mind for such a frightening expression, _da’len_?” Amae’s melodious voice takes him from his thoughts.

“Spirits, I want to know…” His mother raises an eyebrow. “Please?”

There is a moment of silence as the burning wood shifts and cracks, sending a burst of red sparks into the air, the light catching on Amae’s pendant. Then his mother leans forward, waving her arm above the fire, and it jumps into her hand, “A short story, young one, we must rise early tomorrow if we are to arrive at the Conclave on time.”

Athros beams, and he scrambles towards her, plopping himself in her lap as she keeps her handheld fire away from his face, a fond laugh escaping her lips. He shifts a few times to get comfortable, but sinks his back against her chest watching the dancing flames as she brings them out in front of them. It shifts a few times, dancing around the two of them in the forms of prancing halla. Athros lets out a delighted laugh as the fire returns to Amae’s hand and morphs into a sun with large curved rays.

“The shem’s Chantry says that spirits were the first children of their god, the Maker. They say that he turned his back on them, as they lacked souls, imagination, or the ability to create. Thus he kept them in the Fade, where they could control their surroundings, and created a new world that could not be changed on a whim, where he created living beings.” Athros watches the flames shift to form the figure of a man with rapt attention as his mother weaves her tale, cuddling closer to her.

“Are they lonely?” 

“Spirits do not oft develop enough consciousness to feel lonely, _da’len_ ,” Amae chuckles, ruffling his hair, “rather they exist to embody an ideal - to fulfill a purpose... or a sin.”

“Sin?”

“A spirit twisted from its purpose becomes a demon, a malevolent being who wishes to enter the mortal realm and twist the living towards a life of vice.”

Athros nods uncertainly. “But, Amae, you say that the Chantry is built on nothing but pretty stories. “They hold no basis in reality”. That’s what you always say.” He shifts back, tilting his head up to look at her, “What do _you_ say?”

Amae’s teeth shine in the firelight, and the flame in her hand changes shape again. “ _I_ say that spirits are a mix of manifestations of strong emotions, and the souls of the dead - of those who have wasted away. They have lost all sense of self, and only their strongest ideal remains. Their new purpose is to convey those ideals to the living, and to aid them on that path.”

“And demons?”

“Demons are both born and created. A person who reveled in rage their entire life will undoubtedly form as a demon of Rage, the same way a spirit of wisdom can be twisted into a demon of pride if pushed to the brink.” 

Athros considers her words, then turns his big green eyes back to his mother’s face. “If I die, what spirit will I be?”

An owl hooted before Athros’ mother let out a sudden laugh. “ _Da’len_ , you are young. You have much time to develop your ideals, do not worry about it for now.”

“... Then, what will _you_ be?” Amae’s laughter dies down. “So I can find you when I sleep. So I’ll know who I’m looking for.”

A chuckle. “So practical for one so young.” A pause. “I would say a Spirit of Knowledge.” Her eye closes. “But spirits take much time to manifest, and spirits with an ideal such as knowledge are rare, _da’len_ .” Her eye opens again, and she looks down at him, a serious look settling in it. “You should also not seek out spirits voluntarily, _da’len_ , they are easily twisted, even if you do not mean to, and demons can easily masquerade as their counterparts. Be wary.” She chuckles as he looks down with a pout. “Besides, I wouldn’t hold out hope. If I am to die, you should move on. The living world has much to offer.” 

“I don’t know if I can.”

Amae looks down at him, a small smile gracing her lips.

“Promise me, _da’len_ , that you’ll go on living.”

Athros bites his lip, then nods. “Okay, Amae, I promise.”

His mother chuckles, kissing his hair. “Thank you, young one.”

Athros regards the final form the flame took - the two of them standing in the ruin they had most recently visited together - before it vanishes, and the light goes with it. The large canopy of stars that usually keeps their nights lit is cloaked by masses of clouds that leave the two elves engulfed by shadow.

The elven child barely has time to get used to the dark before he’s scooped up, shrieking as his mother tosses him over her shoulder. “Now bedtime. We have an early day tomorrow.”

“Amae! Put me down!” He giggles, trying to struggle, but ultimately wrapping his small arms around her neck. His mother places him down on their bedroll, wrapping furs around him snuggly. 

After shuffling around in the dark for a few more minutes, he feels her slide into the bedroll next to him. Her breathing is soft as he clings to her, watching. Digging his head underneath the furs, he listens to her heartbeat, hands reaching for the warm metal of her pendant. _If I am to die, you should move on_. 

“Amae?”

“Hm?” Her sleepy reply is muffled by the layers between them.

“Promise me we’ll always be together?” 

She chuckles, the vibrations reverberating through her chest to Athros’.

“Of course, _da’len_.”

The wind howls, raging against the trees that surround them. Their breaths come out in cold puffs of condensation, and they lay underneath clouds that hide their light. The terrain is unfamiliar, hard, browns and washed out greens.

Yet, here, in his bedroll with his mother, fiddling with her prized pendant, Athros feels nothing less than completely safe and sure. _They’ll be together forever._

.

The Fade is beautiful as always as Athros waits for his mother to appear. It’s warm in here, sunlight falling between branches and through leaves to form swaying circles on the forest floor. He’s home, where the nights aren’t frigid, and the trees are the same vibrant green as his eyes.

Athros runs through the forest, reveling in the feeling of grass underneath his toes, damp from what had most likely been rain. _The Fade isn’t_ really _real, but what if it is?_ He laughs, jumping over a small stream.

He stops before one of his markers, and looks around. Amae is still nowhere to be seen. He shrugs, and reaches for a strong vine, one that can hold his weight. Using the plants attached to the bark, he slowly picks his way up the tree, reaching for a large, succulent looking mango.

_Got it_.

He holds onto his prize with both his little arms, a satisfied smile on his face. _Maybe Amae will share this with me_. About to go down, another clump of mangoes not too far off catch his attention.

… _or maybe I can eat this one now, and eat the others with Amae later._

Grinning, he digs into the mango, ignoring the sticky juice as it runs down his fingers and arms, taking a big bite from the meat of the fruit. Flavour explodes in his mouth, and he holds back a squirm of glee. The food in the Fade isn’t real, but at least the taste translates.

“Young one, what are you doing up here?” His mother’s voice calls.

He smiles, grabbing a branch to go get her the mangoes, but his night’s adventures die on his tongue as he looks down at the woman below. That wasn’t his Amae. That wasn’t her smile - and her pendant was nowhere to be seen.

He huffs. “Go bother someone else, I’m waiting for Amae.”

The demon smiles sweetly at him. “I’m right here, _da’len_ , why don’t you come down? You can share the mango with me.”

Athros turns away from her, climbing higher up into the tree, ignoring her untrue saccharine coaxes said in a voice that resembles his mother’s. 

He busies himself, gathering more mangoes, and by the time he’s done, there have been two flashes of light and a screech down below.

“ _Da’len_ , what have I told you about venturing in the Fade without me?” 

“But Amae -”

“No buts, come down.” He pouts, dropping the mangoes down the tree to land by his mother, and proceeds with the climb down.

“Amae - the demon did a bad job, it forgot -” His foot slips.

His shriek upon falling is cut short as he lands in a large pile of furs. Scrambling out of them, Athros winces as Amae sighs, waving a hand. The furs vanish. “You have to be careful, young one, the next demon may be smarter. It could weave honeyed lies disguised as promises, wearing a face that doesn’t belong to it, a siren’s song to lure you to your doom.” She cups his face. “The Fade is dangerous, _da’len_. Until you can fight off demons on your own, please, do not stray from me.”

Athros’ smile drops as he nods sullenly. “I understand, I’m sorry, Amae.” 

An affectionate smile blooms on his mother’s face. She presses a kiss to his forehead. “It’s alright, just be aware, _ma'las_ [2] .” She straightens, and a staff materialises in her hand. “Now, little one, let us get on with our lesson.” she waves her staff, and the ground shudders and cracks, a large chunk of stone levitates for a few seconds before it’s sent hurtling towards a tree, cracking it in two with a loud _snap_ upon impact. “Primal magic.”

Athros’ smile returns, and after a small struggle to summon his staff, the lesson begins.

.

Amae picks Athros up, his legs being spared the burn and ache of walking across mountains for the past few hours. She hums her clan’s lullaby, picking her way across the stone paths up to their destination. The stone is less defined here, it’s less traveled than the roads below them, where hundreds of figures walk in semi straight lines towards the Temple of Sacred Ashes, cold sunlight reflecting off of their armour, the occasional flame being released from wooden staffs.

He looks around, taking in the snow with a shiver. He misses the sun, the dappled rays that warm his skin as he and his mother travel. He frowns, he doesn’t like the mountains. 

But - 

A snowflake lands on his nose. 

He giggles, _they’re pretty_.

Athros clings onto Amae’s back, watching the forest behind them grow smaller, and smaller, and - 

He squints.

Is that a person?

He leans forward, steadied only by his mother’s hand.

“What is it, young one?”

“There’s someone behind us,” he mutters, eyes trained on the figure slinking through the snow, a staff in their hand.

His mother stiffens, a hand going to her pendant. “Are they _following_ us?” 

Amae watches the figure for a few more seconds before shaking his head. “No. They’re just… weird. It’s…”

“It’s what, _da’len_?”

“It’s like they’re waiting for something.”

.

Athros clings to the stolen robes Amae had used to get them into the temple. He doesn’t like them, they’re silky, too smooth and perfumed for his mother, who wears coarse linen and leather and smells like the forest. 

No one pays them any attention as they keep to the outskirts of the mage groups, never engaging in conversation that lasts more than two minutes. There are too many people, Athros can barely dodge a person without running into ten more. It’s too loud, too crowded, Athros knows that Amae hates crowds.

His hand slips and he is lost in a room full of identical people wearing the same robes. He swallows back his panic. _Be unassuming, we need to blend in_ , had been Amae’s words. He couldn’t make a scene - he had to - he had to find Amae himself.

Taking a shaky breath, he forces himself to look up, pretending all of these unfamiliar people are trees. Trees with beards are not Amae. Trees with rounded ears are not Amae. Pale trees with pointed ears are not Amae.

He takes in another deep breath. Maybe if he finds a wall, she’ll find him? 

Doing his best to stay calm, he slips between the roots of all the trees. Even if they move, they’re just sylvans, and sylvans are easy to escape. _Right, left, duck, stop, right, straight, pause - there_.

The moment his hand touches the cold marble, he feels a portion of the panic subside, left simmering instead of boiling in his chest. He presses himself up against the wall, sinking down to the floor. Voices echo around the room, crashing into each other and off the walls to form a cacophony of discorded sounds. His heart beats in his ears, and it pounds rhythmically, _quickly_ and _mercilessly_ in his head.

He can’t make a scene. Amae needs to stay unassuming. She needs -- 

He chokes back a sob and lifts the hood of his too smooth robe to hide his face, clutching at the sleeves.

_Breathe_ , he hears his mother’s voice call to him above the chaos. _Breathe._

He breathes in through his nose, exhales through his mouth. Once, twice - 

“ _Da’len_!” 

His head snaps up as he sees a tree with his mother’s face. 

No - not a tree - 

“Amae!” He cries, springing up and flinging himself at her legs, grabbing tightly onto them.

Her hands come to rest on his back, pressing him closer to her. “Da’len, I’m so sorry, I should have found you sooner.” He feels her hands move to clutch at his shoulders as she pulls him back slightly, kneeling in front of him. “Are you alright - Creators - did someone do something to you?”

He sniffles, shaking his head. “N-No… Amae said - Amae said to stay small, so -” he hiccups, rubbing at his tears, “- so I came to the wall, no one - no one noticed me - “

Amae’s face crumples. _No, no, don’t be sad - Amae I’m sorry -_ “ _Da’len_ , you’re okay, it’s okay.” Her arms wrap under his and he’s lifted from the ground, held safely against her chest. “I’m so sorry, young one, this place is loud isn’t it? Let’s go someplace quieter.”

With his face buried in the crook of her neck, he lets himself be carried towards a side door. He closes his eyes and breathes. She still smells like the forest.

“Halt!” Athros’ eyes open, and he lifts his head nervously.

A man in full armour stands in front of his mother.

With a small shriek he digs his head back into Amae’s shoulder, curling upon himself even more.

“This area isn’t for _mages_.” He spits the word like it’s a curse.

“The hall is too loud,” the venom in his mother’s voice is more potent than any poison any Orlesian noble could dream of using, “this child is sensitive to sound, would you rather he suffer?”

Athros hears the guard shift backwards, “I - well, there’s an area for children -”

“I’d rather die than leave my child in the hands of strangers,” Amae’s tone seeps into danger, and Athros hears him take a step back, “not when rogue templars who would see him locked up roam these halls.”

“I really can’t -”

“Accompany me if you must,” she cuts him off, voice clipped, “but I am going down this hall, right now, and caring for my child away from the noise.” With a final glare, she begins walking forward, away from the din of the main hall and into the quiet of the stone corridor. The guard sputters after her, but makes no move to stop them once she walks past him. She always walks with purpose. 

Down several hallways and past several corners, Amae ducks underneath a staircase and sighs. Here the arguments from the main hall are barely audible, and a single rustle of clothing is akin to a scream.

“Better?” the low voice of his mother rumbles. He nods.

“Yes, thank you.” A whisper, but she hears. The entire corridor could hear.

They make no motion to move for a long while. No sounds but their breathing, and the occasional footsteps of servants and guards. 

A sigh breaks their silence, Amae shifting to stand. “Clan Lavellan is relying on me to gather information on the Conclave, _da’len_.”

Athros bows his head, dejectedly picking at some moss growing between the tiles.

“I do not want to take you back into the main hall, lest we repeat what happened earlier,” she continues, “are you alright staying here?” 

He continues to pick at the moss, but nods once, jerkily.

He feels her smile. He likes it when she smiles. He looks up at her and smiles back. “Come back soon, Amae.”

Amae grins, ruffling his hair and pressing a big kiss to his forehead. “I’ll be back soon, little one.”

She slips out from under the stairs.

“I love you…” He says.

She pauses.

She kneels back down and pulls him into a tight hug.

“I love you too, Athros.”

She pulls away. 

“I’ll be right back, I promise!” She calls.

Her footsteps ring out down the corridors, until he is left in silence yet again.

He closes his eyes, maybe if he sleeps here he’ll be able to practice magic in the Fade.

.

_Mar val’ma_ [3]. 

.

Pain, green, _things that chase_. The Fade won’t listen.

They howl behind them as the woman carries him, sprinting as fast as she can towards the light at the top of the cliff, possibly once pristine robes now stained with black ichor.

“Can you climb?” The voice is accented, she sounds like the shems in the Emerald Graves.

“Y - yes,” he sobs. The light that attached itself to his hand flares and he screams.

“You must climb!” She urges.

“I want Amae!” He sobs.

“I’ll get you back to them once you climb, I swear, but you _must_ climb, child!” He clenches his fists, and clutches at the stone, lifting himself up.

The woman stays under him, urging him to go on, steadying him when he slips.

He collapses upon reaching the top. Breathing heavily the thing on his hand lights up again. Lightning, shooting up his arm. The screech is ripped from his throat.

Sobbing, he turns back to the woman. She fell behind. He leans over the edge, and reaches for her, calling, she promised - 

.

Everything is white. It’s pain - iron hot like the time Athros had touched the pot that sat over their camp fire.

There’s a rumble, and a crackle, the sounds reverberating through his skull. He can barely see, he cannot register.

Movement. _Amae_?

Sad grey eyes look at him. No - no his mother has a pretty purple eye, like the flowers found at the river beds of the Dales and - Amae is never sad.

Athros tries to speak. If he does, he cannot hear, cannot feel his lips moving. His eyes slide shut, and for a second his arm is caged by the white hot again, before he’s welcomed back into the darkness.

.

Athros wakes. A white glare has him squeezing his eyes shut, vision swimming. Whimpering, his eyes squint open, slowly widening as he takes in the unfamiliar roof above him. It’s not the tarp of the aravels he and his mother occasionally stay in, it’s not the canopy of leaves or untreated bark that usually greets him when he first opens his eyes.

The roof is made of wooden planks, placed in linear lines.

He’s in a shem building. 

Amae doesn’t trust shems, they never stay in shem settlements or villages. Amae camps in the woods, or below the stars, wrapping the both of them in layers of warm furs - and this cannot be real. Because Amae always keeps him warm, and he’s _cold_.

He sits up, holding back a whimper as his hand screams again. This isn’t right, why is there magic on his hand? 

He looks up and sees shem furniture, paintings of people he doesn’t recognise, strange items - this is wrong _, unfamiliar._

“Amae -” his throat is hoarse, scratchy. Tears collect in his eyes as he calls again, shutting them closed, “Amae! I’m cold! It hurts - it _hurts_!” 

Green light flares from the window, and his hand answers in kind.

He wails, and the door on the far side of the room opens.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Elvish:**   
> 
> 
> [1] _Da’len_ \- Little one [⇑]
> 
> [2] _Ma'las_ \- My hope [⇑]
> 
> [3] _Mar val’ma_ \- Your memories are mine.[⇑]
> 
> And so it begins.
> 
> This fic is occasionally gonna get pretty dark in it's themes, especially considering it's main character is 8 years old, you have been warned. (dw its mostly mental stuff but still)
> 
> As I am working towards two bachelors at the moment - I may occasionally miss a week's update - but I think I can do it hahahahahahah TT^TT
> 
> Hope you enjoyed! C you next week :D
> 
> Edit: THANK YOU TO NOVERTURE FOR HELPING ME WITH THE TRANSLATIONS YOU'RE A GODDESS, I THROW MYSELF AT THE FEET OF YOUR GREATNESS!!!!


	2. The Road most Travelled is oft the One with the most Corpses

Athros nervously walked forward, doing his best not to look behind him at the scary angry woman, or up - where a giant green hole sits in the sky. Compacted snow crunches underneath his feet, trampled on by the dozens of soldiers who run back and forth from the temple to the small village then back up to the temple.

He tries to focus on the path ahead, but wagons burn, sending searing heat up into the air. People lie still, some charred, some bleeding, and with a whimper, he realises that these people - all of the unmoving bodies that they’d passed as they climbed the hill - are dead. Unlike the dusty skeletons who lived ancient days now passed, the ones that he and Amae paid their respects to upon entering elvish ruins that time has lost, these are  _ new _ .

A light flashes from above, and a flaming stone crashes to the ground in front of them. Athros covers his head as cracked earth flies into the air and covers the dirty bown snow, a shower of dust coating his hair.

“Child, there is no time. We must continue to the Breach.” The angry woman who had introduced herself as Cassandra prods him forward. He clutches weakly at his scarf, stumbling towards a bridge.

The green hole in the sky catches his eyes again as more demons fall, and he holds back tears, wondering what had happened to warrant all this destruction. Cassandra speaks again, and he flinches, picking up his pace - she’s scary.

.

_ Two women walk into the shem building, both stopping a little ways off of Athros, staring. He shivers and shrinks into himself. Maybe if he stays still enough, they’ll be unable to see him - forget he was there. _

_ “You’re awake,” the first woman speaks with a strange accent he does not recognise. She looks angry. His body backs up away from her semi-consciously, clutching tightly onto the covers. She seems to falter at his retreat, taking pause and looking at the other woman. _

_ The other woman shakes her head, and nears. “Do you know where you are?” her voice is gentler than the first woman’s. Athros knows her accent - Amae and he travel a lot in Orlais.  _

_ He gulps, looking between the two of them. Amae told him not to speak to strangers, especially strange shems. He stays quiet. _

_ The first woman sighs, and the second lowers herself to his height. “It’s alright, we’re not going to hurt you. My name is Leliana, what’s yours?” _

Never tell shems anything about yourself _ , that was one of the rules if he and Amae got separated. He looks away from Leliana, lips sealed. Maybe if he stays quiet they’ll let him go. _

_ “You must speak, child, we need to understand what you know.” The scary woman says, standing next to Leliana. She gestures towards the green magic on his hand. “Can you explain this?” _

_ His brows furrow as he looks at the mark. It sparks and he flinches, pressing his lips together so they do not wobble. He turns his head back to the women, and hesitantly shakes his head. It’s not personal information, so it should be fine… right? _

_ The woman frowns, and Leliana considers his hand. “Do you remember what happened? How this began?” she asks Athros, blue eyes gentle, masking a hardness. _

_ Athros looks between them again, hiding his arms beneath the covers. “Are you with the woman?” He finally asks hesitantly, quietly, so that only they may hear. _

_ “The woman?” He winces as the scary one repeats his words heavily. “What woman?” She and Leliana share another look. _

_ Athros gulps, his voice shrinking to less than a whisper, “I don’t know. She… she said she’d help me find Amae…” his voice trails off. _

_ Leliana searches his eyes. “Do you think your Amae did this?” she questions, gesturing again to the mark. _

_ An unconscious scowl takes over Athros’ face. “No!” he screams. “Amae would never hurt me!” His eyes widen, and he covers his mouth. That was rude, Amae will be disappointed. The women share sullen looks, and he feels his throat tighten. _

_ “Do you know what your Amae was doing at the Conclave?” Leliana amends. “What she was doing?” _

That’s  _ personal information, Athros hears his mother speak, and he turns away - picking at the blanket. It’s coarse, he misses his furs. _

_ After a few beats of silence, the scary woman sighs again. “Go to the forward camp, Leliana. I will take him to the rift.”  _

_ Leliana looks between the two of them, then nods once, shortly. With a final considering glance at Athros and a sweep of her robes, she disappears back through the doorway, and out into the light. The scary woman kneels down in front of Athros, a hand outreached. “I am Seeker Cassandra Pentaghast of the Seekers of Truth. I must ask that you come with me.” _

_ The hand is gloved. A gloved hand stops one from feeling the chill of an eve, the fur of a rabbit as you end its life. It does not allow one to connect to another through the touch of skin, nor feel the warmth of a staff that one had been using in practice, tracing the grooves in the ancient wooden metal. A gloved hand is cold, and uncaring of those who live in the present. They hide iron fists used to tear down those who can do naught but weep and beg for mercy. A hand hidden by a glove seeks to leave no trace in its path towards destruction. Athros does not touch the glove that hides that hand. _

_ But the gloved hand does not care, and it takes his arm and pulls him from what little comfort remained, out and into a sickly green glow that infects, that grows, and that spits out those it does not want. _

_ The green abomination that greets him is massive. It reminds Athros of a whirlpool they had once found in the Free Marches, once that swallowed everything in its path. But this is the opposite. Rather than taking, it gives, and it gives death and destruction to those below. _

_ Athros cannot move his eyes from the hole hovering in the sky. He feels the magic of the fade seeping - pulsing into the world as if it were a heart pumping blood. But the magic does not stay, it dissipates into the atmosphere, hidden by rolling black clouds. It calls and beckons, and if he strains, he can hear the cries of spirits who do not want to go to the realm of the living, who are driven mad and twisted into demons. Their screams make him want to weep in tandem with them, to mourn what they had once been, and may never be again. _

_ “We call it the Breach.” Cassandra says, finally letting his arm go. “It’s a massive rift into the world of demons that grows larger with each passing hour. It’s not the only such rift, just the largest. All were caused by the explosion at the conclave.” _

_ Athros can barely get out a squeaky, “Explosion?” before Cassandra continues.  _

_ “Unless we act, the Breach may grow until it swallows the world.”  _

_ Athros breathes heavily, looking at Cassandra with a dry throat, “Amae - is she -” the mark on his hand flares again, and he’s left falling to his knees, choking out a small cry as it scorches his nerves. _

_ A gloved hand steadies him. “Each time the Breach expands, your mark spreads… and it is killing you. It may be the key to stopping this but there isn’t much time.” The Seeker’s voice is surprisingly gentle as she helps him stand. _

_ He takes in a breath, and braves looking directly at her face. “Why?” He can’t help it as fat tears start rolling down his cheeks. “Why would someone do this?” _

_ “I do not know. But closing the Breach is our priority. Whether that’s possible is something we shall discover shortly. It is our only chance, however. And yours.”  _

_ Athros nods shakily. “If I help, will you help me find Amae?” _

_ Cassandra’s expression falters for only a moment, before it firms up and she nods. “If she has survived the explosion and demons, yes, I swear I will help find your mother.” _

_ He nods again. “Then… okay…” He looks beyond, to the streets of the village, where dozens of shem faces look at the two of them. Some with pity, some blank, some clench their teeth in hatred. Swallowing, he tries to straighten, to make himself look bigger. “I’ll help.” _

.

Another flare, another burst of lightning through the nerves of his arm, and he falls to his knees, a strangled cry of pain and shock ripped from his throat.

Cassandra had explained that some of the people thought he had helped whoever was responsible, and had called that he be arrested as the perpetrator. She told him of Divine Justinia, the Head of the Chantry, who had organised the Conclave in the first place in an attempt to stop the fighting between mages and templars.

She said there may be a trial, and everything else had fallen on dead ears as the gargantuan clouds of smoke that he had mistaken for clouds catch his notice. He can barely think about the dead that surround him, nor the destruction through the pain that is slowly spreading like a poison up his arm.

Armour shifts behind him, and a hand that is supposed to be comforting is placed on his back as he is lifted to his feet. She pats him twice on the shoulder when she gifts him back his balance. “The pulses are coming faster now. The larger the Breach grows, the more rifts appear, the more demons we face.”

“I can’t, I can’t move,” he wails as the mark crackles and snaps, paralysing agony coursing up and up and  _ up _ .

“I’m sorry, but we need to move, child.” The ground beneath his feet vanishes - and with barely any effort he’s thrown over Cassandra’s shoulder. He finds himself letting out an indignant shriek - he’s not a  _ sack of potatoes _ . Only another surge of heat stills his tongue of complaints, his hands clinging tightly to her armour.

Distant screams and shouts can be heard ahead. More stones fly and land near them, the smell of burning flesh permeates the cold chill - 

“How did I survive?” He asks, because focusing on anything else right now is too much. 

He feels more than sees the woman turn her head slightly to glance at him. Or perhaps it’s in his head, because her head faces the road when he twists his own to look. “They said you… stepped out of a rift, then fell unconscious. They say a woman was in the rift behind you.” He perks up. “No one knows who she was.” With the slightest hope he had extinguished, he drops down again, tracing the patterns of her amour. “Everything farther in the valley was laid waste, including the Temple of Sacred Ashes. I... suppose you’ll see soon enough.”

“How many people died?” The question slips out by accident. Cassandra stops, and the angle he’s held at gives him the perfect view of three corpses, two mages and a templar. He turns his head tucking his cheek against her shoulder and shutting his eyes. This was  _ wrong _ .

“We don’t know.” Cassandra finally says, resuming her run. They arrive at the gate to the next bridge before she gives pause again. “But the casualties are in the hundreds.”

“I can walk now,” he mutters.

A pause.

“Very well.” She sets him down on the ground letting him regain his bearings before urging him to continue. The bridge is long, Athros can count five people at the end - 

A high pitched sound comes from above. A flash of green and the bridge is collapsing from underneath them. Rocks tumble to the icy river below, and its a miracle that the ice doesn’t shatter beneath their feet to drop them into the icy depths of freezing water below.

Athros feels his bones strain under the pressure as he and Cassandra are sent hurtling down, skidding and bouncing down the fallen rocks until they land on the ice. 

“Are you alright?” Cassandra grunts, lifting herself up to stand. Athros can but get a single syllable out before a green blaze falls from the Breach again, landing in front of them. A demon - a  _ shade _ \- rises from the explosion of green fire. A ring as the seeker unsheathes her sword from her scabbard, pulling the shield from her back. “Stay behind me!”

With every intention of doing so, Athros clutches at his bruised ribs in pain, standing up on wobbly legs. Yet, while the Seeker charges forward at the shade, the ground in front of Athros begins to bubble, a black ichor that swells like gaseous swamp water. It whispers to him in a tongue he does not understand, and he quickly realises that another demon is coming. 

Desperate, he spins around, looking for something -  _ anything _ that would help him fight back. That's when he notices a glint underneath snow, and his surroundings suddenly seem familiar. Scrambling towards the metal, the shade behind him has finally emerged, it’s mouth open in an inhuman screech. It pursues, claws extended, and  _ just a little bit farther -  _

The bark of the shaft is cool and familiar in his hands, tugging it free of the snow, he spins just in time to meet the claws, narrowly blocking what would have been several puncture wounds to the chest. Summoning all the mana he can, his magic shifts through his staff, activating the blocks that sit at the end. They hover in the air for a second, the shade pulls back to attack again, and - 

The shade has no time to react before the blocks whizz into it at full speed. It stumbles backwards, giving Athros just enough time to lift a rock and hurtle it at the shade. The large stone sends the demon backwards, crushed underneath its weight. For a few horrible seconds it screams before the shade dissipates in a puff of black smoke. 

Athros breathes heavily, leaning on his staff as he calls the blocks back. They settle into their nooks, re-fusing with the main bulk of the focus. He takes in a finally shuddering breath, a hand going back to pressing on his ribs. He turns to see if Cassandra needs help, only to be met with the pointed end of a sword.

“Drop your weapon. Now.”

In fear, Athros nearly does as ordered, hand loosening minutely - then almost instantly tightening around again. “No.” He hopes he sounds more firm than scared. “It’s  _ my  _ staff! I need it.”

Cassandra scowls. “You’re but a child, you do not need to fight-”

“I needed to now!” 

She regards him for a moment, cautiously, then sighs. “You’re right, I cannot always protect you.” She looks over the staff, then back at him. “How good is your control? How do I know you won’t send a spell at me instead of a demon?”

Athros clutches the staff closer to his chest. “Amae taught me magic,” he mutters, “I know it’s dangerous if I cast spells near people. So I only do it when no one is near.”

A pause. Then another sigh as she sheathes her sword. “Very well. I cannot expect you to be defenceless, even if you are but a child.” She reaches out a hand to him. “I’m sorry, it was unfair of me when you have agreed to come willingly. And I should remember that you know as little as we do in this matter.” A gesture at the Breach.

Athros hesitates, but takes her gloved hand. They resume their trek side by side, down the valley. More demons appeared, but Athros kept his distance this time, sending stones at shades and freezing wraiths. The deeper they travel, the more demons appear.

“Don’t you have soldiers?” Athros asks after a while, taking a moment for his mana to restore, wincing as a cut on his nose begins to seep blood. “Where are they?”

“At the forward camp, or fighting. We are on our own, for now.” She says, kneeling in front of him to place a small bandage on his wound. “But we will soon come upon the rift, you must prepare yourself.”

A tight nod, and his mana is back. 

Together they dispatch more demons, although Cassandra does most of the work. Risking his staff and Cassandra’s well being isn’t worth experimenting.

They finally reach the foot of a hill, where Athros’ hand begins to prickle. He glances at it warily, but it feels like pins and needles rather than the nerve-burning pain of the expanding Breach. The pin pricks seem to tug his hand up, to where he can see crumbled stone buildings.

“We’re getting close to the rift. You can hear the fighting.”

Hearing soon became seeing, as a huge crystalline rift floats above about half a dozen people fighting. Most in the uniform of Cassandra’s guards. Two not.

Athros and Cassasndra once again fall into their positions. The Seeker a little ways off from him, keeping the demon’s attention, and the young mage taking out those who try to get in sneak attacks. A particular demon gets his attention as it tries to strike at a mage from behind. In a panic, the little blocks on his staff hurtle towards it, entering the back of its skull and flying out of the other. The demon crumples and disappears in a fire of green, the flames speeding towards the rift and disappearing within it.

The metal block hovers back to Athros’ staff, and the last demon is slain.

The mage that he had just helped runs over. “Quickly, before more come through!” Athro’s hand is grabbed again and pulled to face the rift. The tingling feeling intensifies, and an arc of green light shoots from the rift to meet his hand. It burns again. Clenching his teeth, a high pitched noise that raises the hairs on his skin, as the sound of the veil being forced shut increases in volume and pitch and - 

The rift explodes in a flash of light and vanishes. Athros looks at his hand in shock,  _ it worked _ . The pain is gone as quickly as it appeared, and the mage that had grabbed him backs away, looking somewhat pleased. Athros cannot help but retreat as well, hiding himself from the onlooking soldiers behind Cassandra’s legs.

Both Cassandra and the mage seem surprised, but there’s too much attention on him. Athros hides his head, he doesn’t like it.

“Chuckles, I think you scared the poor kid.” A rough voice belonging to a dwarf pipes up, strolling over to the group. He turns to Athros, bending his knees to get down to Athros’ level. “You okay there kid? Hurt anywhere?”

Athros looks between him and Cassandra, then hesitantly shakes his head. The dwarf smiles. “Good.” He straightens, clears his throat, and gestures to himself. “Varric Tethras: rogue, storyteller, and occasionally unwelcome tagalong.” A wink to Cassandra has her scowling and Athros giggling. “And who might you be?”

The question cuts through his laughter, and he casts his eyes down.  _ Never tell shems anything about yourself.  _ A few seconds of silence, and Varric doesn’t seem deterred. “Well, it’s great to meet you, Edelweiss. I’m sure we’ll become great friends in the valley.”

Cassandra splutters, “Edel - _ absolutely not.  _ Your help is appreciated,  _ Varric,  _ but you cannot simply -”

“Have you been in the valley lately, Seeker? Your soldiers aren’t in control anymore. You need me.” His eyes cut to Athros. “Besides, you planning on protecting the kid all by yourself? He’s already injured.”

Athros’ hand subconsciously goes up to his nose as Cassandra lets out a disgusted grunt, turning away and stripping Athros of his cover. He starts to walk after her, panicked, but stops short. There was something familiar in the air.

He turns and it’s gone. With a frown his eyes search, but the feeling has vanished.  _ Where  _ \- 

“How is your hand?” The mage from earlier takes him from his thoughts. Athros pulls his hand close to his chest, shrinking away from him. The man stops approaching him. “My name is Solas. I am - pleased to see you yet live.”

“He means, ‘I kept that mark from killing you while you slept.'” Varric pipes up helpfully. Green eyes switch between the elf and the dwarf before the frown deepens.

“How?” A quiet question that takes Solas aback.

“Like you, Solas is an apostate,” Cassandra says, coming back, and returning Athros’ shelter. “He is well versed in matters such as these.”

“All mages are now apostates-”

“How?” A repeat of the question.

Attention back on him, Athros closes his mouth, holding onto Cassandra’s leg unconsciously.

Solas smiles. “My travels have allowed me to learn much of the Fade, far beyond the experience of any Circle mage. I came to offer whatever help I can give with the Breach. If it is not closed, we are all doomed regardless of origin.”

Athros purses his lips. Amae told him to be wary of learning from the Fade itself, it twists truth like rippling water distorts images.

“But to answer your question, I used a mix of healing magic and minor wards to keep the mark at bay. I’m afraid neither are strong enough to keep it from spreading now.” The mark crackles, and Athros winces. “Like that.” Solas turns to Cassandra, “You should know: the magic involved here is unlike any I have ever seen. Your prisoner is indeed a mage, but I find it difficult to imagine any mage having such power - especially a child who can barely cast a primal spell.”

There was something,  _ something _ that didn’t click. The dwarf and the Seeker take this mage’s words at face value, but Amae told Athros that  _ nothing _ is ever what it seems. Maybe she’d be able to help him understand what he was feeling, but until then, he’d have to go on.

Solas and Cassandra finish talking, and they begin their last stretch towards the forward camp.

“Well,” Varric says, passing Athros with a smile, “Bianca’s excited.”

Athros clutches at his staff and follows after Cassandra, tailed by their two new tagalongs. 

.

“The robes you wear, were you a circle mage?” Solas asks as they finished clearing another small frozen river of demons.

Athros looks back at the mage, hands stuck wiping on snow in an effort to get demonic rot off of his skin. He looks back at his hands and shakes his head.

“Perhaps a city elf?” Varric pipes in, loading a new bolt into Bianca. 

Athros stands up straight, wandering back to Cassandra. He pauses, then shakes his head at the dwarf. Behind him, Solas’ expression sours,

“Then you must be Dalish, but clearly away from the rest of your clan. Did they send you here?” Athros fiddles with the blocks in his staff, yet again shaking his head ‘no’.

The two men share confused glances as Athros tugs on Cassandra’s armour, gesturing to the path that they had been following. Cassandra begins walking, a hand gently herding Athros forward. 

“Any theories, Seeker?” Varric inquires, falling into pace behind the two of them.

Said Seeker lets out a disgusted grunt, but replies anyways. “I do not know. He was taken to the Conclave by his mother, that is all we know.”

“I have heard stories of Dalish exiling mages when too many are born per clan. Perhaps this is the case.” Solas supplies from behind them. Athros bites his lip, a scowl forming.

_ I’m right here _ ,  _ stop theorising. _

“Do  _ you _ know his name, Seeker?”

“No. I do not.”

“Ah, so much distrust in such a small elf. I’m almost hesitant to ask what you did to him.” Varric’s tone is teasing - but Cassandra lets out an affronted scoff.

“I did nothing!”

Their bickering continues till the mark flares again. Athros falls to his knees with a cry. His three companions are next to him in an instant.

“We must hurry, before the mark consumes him.” Solas.

“Hold on, child, we haven’t much farther.” Cassandra.

“Shit, you alright?” Varric.

Athros bats their hands away, teeth clenched. He must be strong,  _ for Amae _ . He rises and staggers forward, eyes already on the next demons up ahead, a hand on his staff. 

_ For Amae _ .

.

They were interrupted by demons only once more before they arrived at the forward camp.

This time, closing the rift after slaying the demons wasn’t as hard, but the pain and the pins and needles remained.

The gate opens, and the camp is revealed. Soldiers speak in hushed tones as a woman in white and red robes kneels over wrapped bodies, hands closed in a prayer. 

“Maker, take them to your side,” she mutters.

He gulps, tearing his eyes from the corpses, still holding onto Cassandra as she makes her way to a table. Leliana is there, and an old man in the robes of the Chantry. Athros pauses. They're arguing. He doesn’t want to be near conflict - Amae said it could lead to danger. Yet Cassandra tugs him along, till he can hear the words more clearly.

“- Haven’t you all done enough?”

“You are  _ not _ in charge here -”

“Enough! I will not have it - ” he stops as he sees the group approach, crossing his arms. “Ah, here they come.”

Leliana lets out a sigh of relief. “You made it. The child wasn’t injured?”

“No, he is safe.” Athros is prodded out from behind Cassandra. He fights the urge to go hide behind Cassandra again - he does not enjoy being on the receiving end of the look in the man’s eyes. 

“Chancellor Roderick, this is -”

“I know who he is. As Grand Chancellor of the Chantry, I hereby order you to take this criminal to Val Royeaux to face execution.”

Athros’ heart drops.

Cassandra balks. “Execution!? He is but a child! No, I refuse.”

“He may be a child but the mark on his hand confirms his guilt - I  _ order you - _ ”

“'Order me’? You are a glorified clerk. A bureaucrat!”

Roderick steps forward. “And you are a  _ thug _ , but a thug who supposedly serves the Chantry!”

Leliana steps in front of Athros, tone neutral. “We serve the Most Holy, Chancellor, as you well know.”

Roderick throws his hands in the air. “Justinia is  _ dead _ ! We must elect her replacement, and obey her orders on the matter.”

“That may take -”

“Um!” Everyone’s voices cut off, gazes moving to the small child clutching his staff. “Um… I don’t know what happened, but I said I would help, so…” 

“You can’t  _ help _ ! You caused this in the first place -”

“That’s enough!” Cassandra steps forward, displeasure written all over her face. “We can stop this before it’s too late, but we need the child.”

“How? You won’t survive long enough to reach the temple, even with all your soldiers.” The chancellor loses his fire, leaning over the desk. “Our position is hopeless.”

Cassandra shakes her head. “Not if we charge with the soldiers. It’s the quickest way.”

“But not the safest.” Leliana glances quickly at Athros before continuing. “You can take the path over the mountain, Cullen can lead a charge with the soldiers as a distraction.”

“We lost contact with an entire squad on the mountain - it’s too risky!”

Roderick straightens and faces the two women. “Listen to me. Abandon this before more lives are lost. So many have already died, this is a suicide mission.” The Chancellor sounds so defeated, it almost makes Athros forget about his threat of execution.

The Breach thrums. Pain spikes. Athros’ fists tighten, nails biting into skin. Cassandra places a gloved hand on his shoulder, getting to a knee in front of him. “How do you think we should proceed?”

Athros’ eyes widen. “Me?”

“You have the mark.” Solas says.

“And you are the one we must keep alive and protect. We cannot agree on our own…” She sighs, standing. “What would you prefer?”

Athros looks between Leliana and Cassandra, holding a hand to his chest. “Um… I…” In a soft, shaky voice, he replies, “The mountain path… those people… they might need help.”

Cassandra nods, taking her hand back. “Leliana. Bring everyone left in the valley.” She begins to walk, Athros, Solas, and Varric trailing after her. “ _ Everyone _ .” A firm emphasis.

Roderick’s voice is but a whisper in the wind by the time he calls after them. “On your head be the consequences, Seeker.” But off of the bridge, and starting their trek up the mountain path, all that Athros can focus on is the vortex in the sky, and the screams of spirits and people alike.

.

Out of all the demons and wraiths they had fought along the mountain path, Athros’ greatest foe was not anything that attacked him directly. No. It was not the shade that had yet again gotten past the others and scratched Athros’ cheek, nor the wraith that had hurled a ball of green energy at him. The worst enemy that Athros had to fight - were the absurd amount of ladders leading up to the cave. 

Athros nearly wept when another blasted ladder stood between him and his destination. Varric seemed to share the sentiment. “Why couldn’t there just be stairs? Even stairs would be preferable to  _ these _ ! They’re made for people with  _ long  _ legs.”

“Varric, stop complaining, there are only two more ladders after this one. The child is smaller than you, and even he is not whining.”

“Fen’Harel curse all ladders,” Athros mutters in response to Cassandra’s chiding. 

Solas, who had been awfully quiet since the forward camp, raises an eyebrow, his mouth twitching. Varric lets out a victorious laugh. “See, Seeker?  Even the kid hates this.”

Cassandra rolls her eyes, turning to Athros. “Do you wish to take a break? I could carry you down.”

Athros shakes his head ‘no’, resigned to his fate of climbing up and down ladders for the rest of eternity. Little hands grabbing the bar, he hoists himself down. Ladders are like trees, just without all the fun. No leaves, no texture that helps with grip, no fruits. Just dead old wood.

Upon dropping down onto the snow below, Athros feels the pull in his hand again. He looks around, to be greeted with the sight of more corpses. He holds back a whimper, averting his eyes as Cassandra lands behind him.

“That cannot be all of them, some must have survived,” she says, regret dancing beyond her eyes.

And indeed they had. The rift that the mark had felt lay only a few dozen meters away, the tear swaying a sickly green.

As they had gotten used to, Athros stayed back with Solas, casting spells only when no one was near the area of effect. However, when the ground beneath their feet started glowing a whitish green, their comfortable rhythm was thrown off balance.

A demon springs from underneath them, knocking the both of them over. Athros lands on a rock, stars exploding behind his eyes. Disoriented, and no longer holding his staff, there is only one thing he can do as the demon approaches.

He summons mana into his palm and - 

It freezes.

Athros looks at his hand in confusion, but the demon shatters and Solas stands behind it. “Are you alright?”

Athros nods, stumbling as he stands, but otherwise uninjured. The final wraith is slain, and the rift stops spewing demons. It drips the glowing green energy, and Athros lifts his hand. The mark connects with the rift, energy cackling and screeching as it slowly closes.

With a final loud crackle, the rift is closed. Athros breathes heavily, Solas coming up behind him with a small smile. “You seem to be getting quite proficient at this, well done.”

Athros does not share the sentiment. “It hurts,” he whispers.

For half a second, something flashes in Solas’ eyes. Before Athros can read it, it’s gone, and Solas has turned away.

“Here’s to hoping it works on the big one.” Varric mutters, yanking his ichor covered bolt out of the snow.

Athros feels a sense of dread, and shakes it off, turning to see Cassandra helping up one of the soldiers. “Thank the Maker you finally arrived, Lady Cassandra. I don’t think we could have held out much longer.”

Cassandra shakes her head. “Thank the child, Lieutenant. He insisted we come this way.”

The soldier turns to Athros, who had regained his position behind Cassandra. “The child? Then you…?”

Athros pokes his head out from behind Cassandra’s legs shyly, giving a small nod.

The soldier pauses before pressing a fist to her heart. “Then you have our sincerest gratitude.”

Athros gives another timid nod, and looks up at the Breach.  _ Here’s to hoping it works on the big one _ Varric had said. Athros gulps. The small ones already take up so much energy, and they make his entire arm feel like it’s on fire. He shivers.  _ Will _ he be able to close the big one? And even if he can… would he even survive?

“Child?” Cassandra’s voice shakes Athros from his thoughts. “After this final ladder, we’ll be at the Temple. Can you go on?”

“Yes…” He slips out from behind her towards the ladder. 

As they pick their way down the ladder and the hill leading to what remains of the temple, Athros’ thoughts begin to buzz. Solas and Varric talk amicably amongst themselves about ‘giant explosions’, but all Athros can do is focus on the still smoking ruins.

His throat tightens.  _ He doesn’t know where his Amae was. He  _ really _ can’t remember where he was when the explosion happened, what if -  _

He drops down, and they’re here.

Burnt corpses surround them, what remains of their faces frozen in screams, hands outstretched in agony - stuck in the positions they had died in. 

Solas lands beside him, knuckles turning white as he holds onto his staff. “The Temple of Sacred Ashes.”

“What’s left of it anyway,” Varric’s response is a sombre murmur, eyes drifting over the destruction.

Athros feels his entire body begin to shake. A gloved hand covers his eyes. “Do not look at them child, just continue moving.” A voice says.

He nods and the glove is removed. He walks, keeping his eyes on their destination.

But there’s a glint in his peripheral.

Against his will, his head shifts.

He looks at the corpse of a person, forever stuck standing, mouth petrified open.

And around their neck. A pendant.

He stops, feet stuck. His hands start shaking. His blood rushes in his ears, all too aware of the sporadic beating of his heart. His eyes fixed on the piece of metal. He can’t  _ blink, he _ can’t  _ look away _ because this  _ cannot be real _ . This cannot be happening because if it is - it means…

His mouth opens and shuts a few times. Distantly, he’s aware of the people standing around him talking. Urging him about  _ something _ he can’t make out.

His feet won’t obey him. He can’t hear, cannot see anything else.

A life that feels like eons past flashes through his eyes. A woman, eyes alight with wonder and excitement as they enter an ancient ruin. It matters not if it is human, elvish, or dwarvish because it is  _ history _ . He shares in the wonder, because there is nothing better than finding lost and hidden stories with her.

A woman that ruffles his hair, laughing boisterously. He cannot help but laugh along because her smile and joy are contagious. 

Sunlight days beneath towering trees that seem endless. She splashes him with water, and he splashes back. He gets her a fruit, and she gives him the bigger piece.

Starlight nights where her soft voice would explain constellations, the stories of the stars - words he hung onto like lifelines because he could always count on them to lead him back to her. Firelight nights in snowy mountains, where she’d weave him tales using images made of fire to bring the story to life, before tucking them into bed where he could fall asleep listening to her heartbeat.

A warmth he never felt when they were apart because she was  _ home _ , she  _ is _ home, and everything he needs to be happy, to be content - to be  _ alive _ .

A soft smile that shifts the lilac patterns on her face that meet eyes the same colour as his favourite flowers. He loves it when she smiles. The smile she gives to him - the genuine smiles she keeps for only him are his greatest treasures - anything to make her happy.

A calming presence who always does what is best for him, even at her own detriment - anything to keep him safe and comfortable. A hand that strokes his cheek and a voice that says “I love you”. The only person who never lied, who always protected, taught, and  _ loved  _ him - 

His voice is choked, a pitiful squeak that echoes.

He’d recognise that pendant anywhere.

  
“ _ Amae _ ?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> DEATH TO ALL LADDERS - CHANGE STARTS WITH YOU - BURN ALL LADDERS IN YOUR VICINITY TODAY!
> 
> .
> 
> I have the feeling that Cassandra and Leliana wouldn't treat Athros like they'd treat an adult inquisitor, so I changed the setting a bit :D
> 
> Also watch me struggle with character voices and make them ooc - apologies in advance <3
> 
> Athros' staff was something I'd just doodled once while figuring out what he looked like and now I'm obsessed with the design and refuse to give it up haha
> 
> Thank you for reading <3 
> 
> (F in chat for Amae)


	3. You can Never Truly Leave nor Return

Athros almost always walks barefoot. Even in the cold snow of the Frostbacks, he never liked the way shem shoes felt. Too tight, too restricting. Shoes are like gloves in a way, they disconnect the wearer from the world around them, the feeling of grass underneath their toes, the cold water of a stream, the rough bark of a tree. At the most, Athros would wrap his feet in long strips of layered leather and cloth - _footwraps,_ his mother had told him they were called footwraps. They were thin, but kept the heat, and still allowed for the texture of the ground to be felt underfoot.

The last he can recall, he had been wearing his footwraps when he woke up. So how come he couldn’t feel _anything_?

Not the floor below, nor the cold wind of the mountains that cut his cheeks, or the burning of the mark that had tormented him for the better part of two hours ever since he woke up.

His throat had felt raw but a few moments ago - where had the sensation gone?

No, he couldn’t feel.

Nothing existed anymore. Was he even alive?

He thinks he’s alive, he can _see_ , and distantly hear echoing voices.

But the words are unintelligible.

The sight makes him want to close his eyes.

He still doesn't feel his feet move, but the pendant gets closer - so he _must be_.

He opened his mouth, he’s sure of it, but whatever sounds he’s making, he can't hear it. The blood in his ears are too loud.

He stands before the pendant now.

He sees his hand reaching forward, but his knees buckle. He doesn’t have the expected flash of pain or pressure that would tell him so, yet his height diminished, and he couldn’t have shrunk, that’s preposterous.

His hand doesn’t stop though, and finally, a sensation.

Cold metal.

It shouldn’t be cold.

Amae’s pendant is never cold, she always keeps it warm.

But she can’t keep it warm any more.

She can’t, because she’s…

She’s…

His senses come back all at once, and the first thing he feels is pressure on his shoulder. A touch, a voice in the distance telling him that they _need to go_. He doesn’t want to go. The pendant is cold, his knees sting, his throat is raw, it’s all suddenly so loud - 

Spirits and people shriek in tandem, discord rising, all the destruction, explosions that should sound distant go off right next to his ear - 

Athros screams.

Distantly he feels a burst of energy detonate. Something unintentional, but there is so much noise - too much light - it came from him as if a dam had ruptured.

He hears several people collapse behind him - thrown several meters back, but he cannot look to check.

Charred skin -

He screams again.

In the far off distance, he thinks he can feel something warm drip from his cheeks.

Burnt sockets where a purple eye should be.

He keels forward, hugging himself, a screech of sorrow torn from his throat.

Heartbreak and mourning, denial, anger, bargaining, and depression all at once. Everything erupts from the cracks.

Through blurred images, he sees his hands covered in ash. For a morbid second, he wonders how much of it used to be his mother.

Time is frozen.

What need for life has he now?

It’s her.

It’s really her.

His hands grasp around the pendant again, and he tries to warm it. Perhaps if he does, she’ll come back.

_I’ll be right back, I promise!_

Amae never broke her promises.

“You liar, Amae -” Athros gasps through a scratchy throat, “you said - you said you’d be right back… where are you?”

There is no answer, and tears come down in fat drops rolling down his cheeks.

Sobs wrack his body, and his fingers slip, letting the pendant go. The motion spurs time back to normal as if by magic, and a hand suddenly grabs him again.

A wailing scream gradually transforms into a croak as he is dragged away from his mother.

_I’m sorry, Child. But this cannot wait any longer._

He struggles, he tries to slip away. 

They’ve still got so many places to go to together - so many mysteries to solve, stories to tell - he can’t _leave_ her here alone - 

“ _Mamae_!” 

His companions look anywhere but him. Regret and genuine sorrow in all its forms, condolences and guilt.

“ _Bellanaris din'an heem_ [1]\- let me _go - Mamae! Help me!”_

Solas’ face twists painfully. “If we do not close the Breach -”

“Shut up! _Fen'Harel ma halam_ [2]! _Amae -”_

They do not let him go. Before long, his mother is hidden behind still standing pillars of stone, and the fight leaves his body. The pain and exhaustion catches up with him faster than an arrow. He slumps in Cassandra’s hold, silent tears following the tracks down his tears.

“ _Ir abelas _[3],” Solas’ soft voice is barely audible.__

“ _Nuvas assan dirasha mar vhenan_ [ 4].” Athros’ response.

Solas does not try to speak to him again after that.

.

The Pride demon roars as it stands back up, but it does not rattle Athros. Instead, he grips his staff and channels his hurt - his grief - his _fury_ , and uses the energy to fuel his spells. How fitting that the only element he seems to be in any mindset to use is fire.

The demon booms, and its skin hardens for the third time since it stepped out of the rift. The soldiers standing in the crater made by the explosion back up as they realise their weapons have no effect yet again. 

No one has to ask Athros to hold his hand up near the rift and sunder the demon again. Green energy collides with his hand and crackles. The rift shifts and flares, and out of the corner of his eye, Athros can see the demon approach him with a deep laugh.

It’s too late though, as the second the demon lifts its whip - the rift erupts. The demon falls to its knee with a cry, and the soldiers are back on it, arrows flying from Leliana and her ranged fighters up on the ledge above the crater.

Cassandra runs up and stands in front of Athros, shield up. “I told you not to run off!” she scolds, slowly backing him from the demon. “You could have gotten injured.”

Athros swallows back the indignant remark that had threatened to spill from his mouth and continues his casting, eyes focused on the large demon. It was huge - bigger than anything he had fought before. Somewhere, in the back of his mind, he’s aware that he should be scared of it. But he isn’t.

Save for the occasional spike of anger or despair, he doesn’t feel anything.

He hadn’t when Leliana had expressed her relief at their presence, nor her hesitation when she noticed his still shaking frame. He hadn’t asked any questions or felt any emotion at the mention and sight of a red glowing rock that emanated heat and a strange song.

No reaction to the sudden low voice that had echoed around them, or a wise but panicked voice that seemed somewhat familiar.

_“Someone help me!”_

Nor had the sudden visions, transparent like the streams of the Dales, elicited any motion. His own frightened voice and visage had been the only one to get a raised head,

_“I-I’ll call the guards! Let her go_!”

Cassandra had looked at him then, wide eyed. “The most Holy called out to you… you _were_ there!” She spun to his front, gloved hands clasping his shoulders, “what happened? Who was that? The Divine - is she… is this vision true -”

Athros bowed his head again, lips sealed. He can't remember anyway.

It was Varric who spoke next, after a small hum and what Athros could only assume was a ‘stop’ gesture. “Perhaps now isn’t the best time for questioning him, Seeker.”

If the Seeker had meant to argue, Athros’ abrupt walk deeper into the crater shut her up. He didn’t want to look at their faces, so full of unwanted pity. They didn’t know Amae, they _don’t_ know what the world lost. He refused to speak to them or let out a sound, even as he opened the Breach’s rift, and the mark burned his hand.

Athros feels yet another burst of anger, and he finally lets out a yell - summoning as much mana as he can at once. A giant ball of fire builds above his staff, and he hurls it at the demon. The soldiers standing near it yell in surprise, jumping out of the way as the monster is engulfed in flame. It screeches and thrashes for a few seconds, before it falls, first to its knees, then lands on its chest with a resounding _boom_.

It’s still flaming as it begins to be absorbed back into the Fade.

A dark thought has him wondering what sound his mother made - if she had the time to make any sound at all - 

He shakes his head, tears threatening to gather and spill again. His eyes hurt, he didn’t want to cry.

“Quickly! Seal the rift!” Cassandra.

He steps towards it - and the energy connects again.

It sizzles and pops - and instead of his arm, his entire body lights up in pain.

The rift shrieks, the silhouettes of various demons and spirits visible beyond it, and the sound rises in pitch, not unlike those strange shem kettles when they reach the optimal temperature for tea.

Athros is so tired.

In a remote spot in his thoughts, he can feel his knees sting as he falls to them for the umpteenth time that night. The intensity of the burn rises, and through lidded eyes, he sees the rift has nearly been knit back together.

_Just for a few more seconds and I can sleep._

The support of the shems around him echo as if they came from mountains away, bouncing around in his throbbing head.

The connection abruptly ends for a second.

Then comes the wave of energy, and he is thrown backwards. His head collides with the ground, and all cuts to black.

.

“Amae, tell me a story.”

“A story? _Da’len_ , it is late, you should sleep.”

“I’m not tired. Please?

“Ah -- well we can’t have that. Very well. What story do you want to hear?”

“Tell me of the future.”

“The future?” A pause as she laughs. “I am flattered, but even I do not know what will come to pass.”

“Can magic not tell you?”

“I’m afraid the future is dictated by actions and will. The will of living beings can never be foretold, though it can be guessed.”

“Then what do you guess?”

A shift, followed by a long pause, silence only broken by the crackling of the fire.

“The world will be thrown into chaos. Again, and again. There will always be those who attempt to restore order, but one day, it shall not be enough.”

“Chaos?”

“Blights, Exalted Marches… the Dread Wolf. Someone or something will always cause the world to be turned upside down. This is why we gather knowledge, _da’len_.”

“It is?”

“Those who do not respect or understand history are doomed to act in a way that repeats it. Those who seek and abuse power are always given their due, those who wish to restore what was lost will find themselves disappointed. You must learn from the past, but never bring it back to the present.” 

“What if I long for the past?”

“Then remember it fondly. But time moves forward always. Never attempt to walk backwards, the flow will not look upon you kindly if you do. Nostalgia is powerful, and will drag you down with its saccharine memories. Tis but bait to lull and trap you into the unattainable.”

“You make it sound like it’s a demon.”

“A mix of desire, envy, and despair. Nostalgia can become a demon, as could any ideal, if it is allowed to be twisted. Be weary, my child, never let nostalgia become more than a fond memory.”

“... I understand, Amae.”

.

It’s dark.

Athros’ eyes flutter open to find himself floating in a void of darkness. 

He opens his mouth, and his breath comes out in barely visible bubbles. “Hello? Is anyone there?”

The gloom stretches as far as the eye can see, his voice lost within the black.

Athros tries to walk forward, but there is no ground for him to walk on. He tries to swim, but there is no resistance with which to propel himself forward. He is stuck, forever settled in the limbo.

With a whimper, he curls in upon himself.

“Anyone?” 

Again, no response.

His hold tightens on his legs. The silence is crushing, and his weightlessness does not allow him to know if he is up, or down - horizontal, or vertical.

He closes his eyes, but the view does not change.

.

Athros does not know how much time he spends in the aether, isolated in complete quiet and shadow, before there is a flash of light.

Seconds or years - who was to say? But he doesn’t feel any different, his body is the same.

The first time the light appears, he is certain it is a trick of the dark. That his mind made it up as a way to cope with the loneliness.

But when it happens again, and again - he realises it is more than it seemed.

His eyes blearily focus on the light as it approaches him. It’s an orb that pulses slightly, sending bubbles of light floating into the darkness to vanish beyond his sight.

It stops short of him, merely an arms length.

“Are you here to help me?” His voice is hoarse.

The light pulses twice, shaking slightly, approaching him.

Athros reaches towards the light, fingers brushing the edge. It feels familiar somehow. Warm.

The orb brightens for a moment, and he can swear he feels the ghost of fingers wrapping around his hand. He looks down, but there is nothing. Just… the void.

The orb nears him some more, pulsing three times quickly, then twice slowly.

“I don’t know what you want,” Athros admits, voice but a murmur. “I’m just… here. I think I may sleep… I’m so very tired.”

The orb suddenly begins to emit a red light, pulsing the hue violently.

Athros flinches backwards. “You - you don’t want me to sleep?” The orb’s light goes back to white as its pulses resume their previous pace.

Athros can feel his eyebrows bunch. “I don’t know what to do. I’m so lonely, and my hand hurts if I try to remember too much... I really want to sleep.”

The orb quakes. It seems to hover in front of him for ages, before it abruptly flies forwards into his chest.

Athros screeches, but it does not hurt. Rather, it felt like nothing at all - nothing's changed. He twists and turns, but the orb is gone, disappeared into his torso.

He hesitantly pokes himself, but there is nothing. The loneliness returns full throttle. The orb had been company, even if it had not been much conversation.

_I think I’ll sleep_. He decides.

His eyes flutter shut.

Sudden sharp pain erupts from his chest.

His eyes snap open, his mouth following in tandem to let out a shout of surprise.

The ghost fingers reappear, accompanying which is a familiar voice that he cannot seem to place.

“ _Y̷̱͔̮̣̑̋͘͠ȭ̴̟̮͎̰̪̫ṷ̵̧͖̤̺̈́͒ ̵̧̡̛̱̬̜͇̐̓̀̏͐c̴̢̦͇̣̦̱̒͆̚a̷̝͍͂͒̈́n̴̡̤̯̘̟̍͂̈́͒͘ņ̵̯̱̞̰̏̈́͠ò̶̤̤̱̕ṫ̴̝̤͈̏̀̓ ̴̢̭͙̫̋̌s̵̭̹̘̝͆̾́̾̈́͝ͅl̵̺̜̦̫̅̀̈́ȩ̶͔̻̳̥̟́͂ę̸̨̛̞̱̋̀͒̋ͅp̸̬̫̲͐̾͂̿̚ͅ,̶̨͖͓̮̱̄̀͆͊̀̿ ̵̧̨͓͌̆̑̓ͅẘ̷̜̅e̴͖̺̬̓̀̾̏ ̵̛̼̖̬̙̖̈́h̵̯a̶̢̨̰̹̩̣͘v̵̭͚͔̀͐̊̽̈͝e̶͉͎̱̝̤͛ ̵̢̗̄̈̅́ͅm̵̨̰̯͈̞̓̿́ṵ̴̜̋̆͘c̷̨̡̺̪͌̿͑͂͋͝h̸̢̲̬̩̿͛̍̚͜ ̸̛̙̩͔ŵ̴͚̎̋̑͑o̶̺̮̞̽̈͜r̶͇̭̮̯͙̹̈́͌̓̔k̵͓̺̓͑̕ ̷̢̤̲̹͂ț̶̞̰̩̜̭̂̒̅̈o̵̖͈̎ͅ ̶͍͎̿͒̑d̵͍̓̓̚͝ô̵̢._ ”

The voice is so soft, so breezy, that if he had not been swimming in the empty, he would have mistaken it for wind.

“I don’t want to, it hurts. And I’m alone now.” He replies, although he cannot remember how to speak.

“ _Y̵͎̣͂͘̚͠o̷͓̓̈́́͐̈́u̸͚̹͙̹̥͘ ̵̜͂̾͌ä̵̡̯́͜ŗ̷̜̪̱͎̾̊̈́͆͒e̴̢̛̎̄̆͒͗ ̵̢̡͕̺̳̄͝s̵͕̪̼̦͈̄̕t̴̩̦̤̱͇̋́̿̾ȑ̵̺͇̱͙̥̼̌̓͌̎o̷̝͗͗ń̶̩͔̟͖͆̆͠g̶̰͎̯̩̩̳͆̔̏̇̏ĕ̷̙͎͇̩̠̺̌͠r̵̛̥͂̅̾ ̶̙̹̌̎̈͝͝t̶̩͈͂̾̍͛͘h̶͙̻̍̍͋a̴̖̲̙̖̤͇͌̃̈́ņ̶̭͔̖̍ ̶̡̰̞̪̈y̴̙̫̠͂̏͝o̸̥̤̿̈́u̶̧̼̲͕̾̊͝͝ ̶̳̰̮̼̰̈́̃k̶̡͕͆ṇ̴̗̫̱̭͌́̐ő̵͖̤͊̆̊ẇ̶͚̻̠̽́͌̍͜.̴͙͕̠͖̚ ̶͍̈́̊͑Y̶̛̲͉͎͖̙̾̒̈́̄́o̵̗͇̠u̴͕͉̯̝̓̅͒̍͒’̶̺̟̰̲͕̗̽̀̿̍̚͠l̵̨̡͗͐͒͐͆͝l̸̢̨͙̓ ̶̡͕͍̯̦̈̔̇̈́̽̐l̵̟̥̳͔̈́͆͘ͅě̸̻̥̐͛̍͑̚a̵̲̲͒̈́̿̋͑͝ͅr̸̥͉̣̂n̸̲̩̽̑͗̚͝,̴̱̌̾͌͜ ̶̹̥̥͉̂͌̆̈̀t̴̬̑̎̇͗͌̚h̶̢͎͉̣̩̘̽͑ē̵̙̪̓̾͘ẏ̸̧͎̹̠͖̰ ̵̢͎̜̙̻̑̒n̸͔̯̱̞ĕ̶̝̤̭͒̈́̌̔͜ě̸̡d̸̢̜̙̭͑̌̀͘͜ ̴̛̻̈́̄͝ẏ̷͍͍͚̦̬̍o̸̞̰̝͒͑͒̈́͌ṵ̴̧̝͑̃̿.̴͔̆͛̈́͊ ̶̢͍̙̾͆̏͂͜W̷̼̠̰͖̏͜ę̵̧̮̀ͅ’̷̱̤͊͜͠l̶͖̟̃l̴͖͘ ̷̧̤͔͔̙̜͒̎͝n̵͈̓ȅ̸̢̠͇̙͇͖̈́̇ę̸͓̿̚d̴͓̖̈́̔͆̂ ̸̨̛̠̘̩̪̉̉̿̈́͌t̶̮̟̠̫̔͂ḫ̵̰̥͉̗͈̾̄͐̾̓ē̶͙̲̝̩̺̅̈́͗m̶͚͔͍͑.̵̣͙̘̳͙̜͒̚_ ”

“You won’t be with me.” Is his response, even though he doesn’t know who he is talking to.

“ _I̸͔̅’̸͕̺̖̭̎̓̋͌͘͜m̶̨̢̛̠̭̹͕͛̀͊ ̶͔̝̺̔̽͐̒̄͆ā̴͉̘̤̌͜͠l̸͓͍͇̮̯̈́̇͜͝͝w̷̱̠̳͍̱͛̍͜ā̴͎̠͉̏̑͝y̴̢̖̹͔̰̌̿̈́͐̋͝s̵̹͇̘̦̔̆̋̕̕ ̸̢͙̮̀̑̏̚͝͠ẃ̵̟͇̭͓̠i̷̯̝̺̞͛͠t̷̡̨̛͙͈̕h̴̗̠͓̺̓̋̓͝ ̶̠̲̖̟̃̊ŷ̴̦͇͚̰̬̔͠͠ơ̸̠̘̽ṵ̷͆͋̀͂̂͛͜.̴̥͍̭͒̽̆͐̃_ ”

“It’ll be dangerous.” An empty protest, elves are always in danger.

“ _L̵̟̂̍̉̚e̴̹̭͠s̶̨̩͚͔̠̼̆̈́͌̀s̵̡͖͕̏̎̈́ ̶̢̧̥͉̿̌̑d̶͓̞̓̑̂̕a̵͎͂n̷̲̘̂g̷̖̭̓̉̃͛͝͝e̸̛̟̚͠r̷̖̋͌̓͌͗͂o̶̧̢͓̙͐̎͊́̕ù̷̱͇̗š̷͈̼̜̫͕̄́̕ ̶͔͙̉t̸̨̙̫̟̫͠ḩ̸̟̦̺͍͑͋̿̿̕ͅą̶̡̹̥̈́͋͒̈́͜ņ̵̲͍̰̳͒͒̽̃̑ ̸̡̛̅s̷͓̈́͋̓̂l̴̲̭͙̩͙̑͠ȅ̷̖̯̲̆͒̾ē̴̡͓͇̠͖̙͑͝p̶̖̖̻̰̘̄̽́̓ị̵̗̞͙͋ñ̴̻͎͌́͘ͅģ̷̣̓̇̓̿͝ ̵̻͈̋r̴̨̡̛̠̪͍̎͋ͅi̷̤̠͒̊g̸͓͉̣̫̲̑̍̚͝͝h̷͎̙̩͔̰̓t̴͚̑͗͋͘ ̶̗̱͎̑n̶̢̈̐̎̄͛͠õ̷̢̡̨͖̱͎͑w̸͖̰̞͌̏͋͠͝.̶̟̪͖̱̦͉͗̈́_ ”

Athros’ lip quivers.

“You promised we’d be safe.”

The voice is silent.

He takes a breath, and his eyes close again.

He does not sleep.

His feet touch the ground, pulled towards it by gravity.

His eyes open, and he is in a clearing in the Emerald Graves. In front of him stands a figure cloaked in shadow.

“ _I̶̢͓̤̰̘̕’̵̪̥̊m̵̬̼̱̰̑͌͝ ̸̠̖̖͙̒̒͜s̵̰͚̖̺͚͕͛̓̉̐ö̴̱́̍̿̆̐̚r̶͇̱̘̫͙̀͋̅ř̶̢͖̭̹̲͚͑̎̓y̷̱͔̳̹̹͓̓͗ ̸͔̉̋̈͑I̵̡̺͚͖̦̬̅͌́̽́ ̶̨̦͚̱̠̺̽̈́ç̴͉̫͖͖̐͜o̸̮̠̅̀̿̕u̷͇͕̞̾̏̄̌̏͌l̷̠̠̟̜̖͑͂̒̿̂̂d̷̤͓̻̭͕̘̔̓͠n̷̢̛̞͎͎̝̩̄͒̓̅́’̷͉́͘t̷͕͑̊̇̔ ̴̬̃k̷̟̿̋ę̷̼̥̤̰͝ę̵͉̫̜̞̝̉̃p̷̢͈̒ ̷̢̝̬̜͊m̵͚̓͂͝ẏ̶̨͍̋̑͘͘ ̵̱͎̈́͛̾̋̇p̵͓̻͕̻̈́r̵̢͔̈́ö̸̮̳̳̜̳̉͂m̵̨̝͊̀͒͌i̸̥̔s̴̺̘̭̫͋̂̄̽e̶̝͓͂̓͛̚,̷̨̛̻̬̜͕͖̏̓̃ ̴̼̈́̑͐̃͝b̶̻̻̦̜̱̉̈́̕͘͘ͅǔ̸̺̭̖̔͌̌̐ẗ̴̳̥́ͅ ̵͙̫͈̱̦̣͒̊̒̔n̷̼̱̐̃̋̏̃õ̷̫̠̹͑̊̂͌͘ẉ̴̤̫̼́̾ ̴̰̦̖̊͂͋y̵̰̮̗̯̲͂̕ó̴̘̞͇̻̯̊u̸̞̪̯̣̱͈͋̽̐̂̃ ̵̬̺̲̻̻͖̈͗̋̆̓̀m̷͈͈͓͈̀͋̆͒̋͂ų̵̹̐͌̀̕s̵̡̰͉̠̝̤̔͑͋͠t̴̰̖̋̌̌̽̊̃ ̵̨̛̺̱̺̦̹̆̒͝ǩ̸̄̍ͅe̵͓͝ė̶̢̹̤͛p̷̩̀̍̐̒̚ ̸̤͚̉̌͗̃̓̅ẏ̸͕͇̯̼̭̔͐̈̏͌o̵̘͋̽͜ͅͅű̵͙̇͗̏̏͝ŗ̵̣̝͍̦̻͑͐̂͘s̷͍̐̄.̶̘́̄̚_ ”

“You promised we’d be together forever.”

The figure does not respond, shadows writing against the splatters of sun that fall between leaves.

Athros clenches his fists, eyes fixed on the grass below him. Maybe if he keeps his eyes open, he won’t cry. 

“You promised…”

“ _W̸̡̨͔͚͂̓ȩ̷̙͔͕̦̇̾̊͂̈́ ̶̮̼̇̈́̊́̕ḩ̶̢̣͖̬͋̽a̷̯͖͈̱̾̓̄̊v̸̢̜͔̙̬̌̿̀̋͘ͅe̸͕̰̻̲͐̔ ̴͔͍̪̭͚̫̌̅͐̓n̷̡̜͍͚͐͗͊̌͜ō̸̧̟̌̂̚ ̷̜͕̮͛̔͌̍̾͝h̵͍͖̥͔̀̏͂͑̾̂o̴̢̝̗̗̺͔̊̀̂̌l̸̙̇̃̅͜͝d̴̡̫̞̥͆͊͑ ̴̮̥̝͇̞̳͊̓͌̓̕ō̵̹̐v̶̼͒ͅe̸̲̩͈̱̣̒͆̋͝r̸̦͎̉̓̊ ̷͖̭̫̇̓̅t̶̛͙̫̭͚͇͕̆̉̈h̶̡̎̎̂͘͝ẽ̸̢̛̬̥͈̓̂ ̷̥͍̞̤̜͛̍f̷̢͖́̓̆̂̈́́u̶͎̐̇͊͂̚t̸͙̙͘͜ͅǘ̶͔̼̠͓̼̤̑̆̑̇ŗ̸̖̪̙̻͂̃̐̚͠e̴̝͑̂̓̆̂_.”

Tears escape him, followed by sobs. He hangs his head.

“I don’t want to be alone.”

The sound of footsteps. 

Arms that are not solid but are still _there_ , wrap themselves around his torso.

“ _Y̴̜̦͓̏̿͊͌̂o̸͕̠͓͖͆u̷̡̩͈̝̿̍̌͘ ̸̎ͅw̵̘͙̟̄͛̈̕ó̸͓̣͉̐͐ͅņ̴͕̻͒’̸̮̙̾t̶͈̒͐͋͘ ̵̯͇̓̑̌ḅ̶̦̟̇̋̌̆̚̕e̴̪͓̝̠̍́̎̔́.̸̢̛͖̯̒̇͐_ ”

They do not comment on his crying. Do not reprimand him for his weakness. He is but a child.

“I’ll live, _m̶̦͍̏͒̃̃̕a̷̛̠͈̾̔̽̔͋'̶̛͙̙͕͉̦̞̿̔̓̈͆͘ͅͅe̵̺̜̲̫̊͆͛̈́̎̑n̴̬̯̺͈͍̜̜̅̔͛l̷͖̓̒ę̶̡̝̯̬̯͚̮͋̾̂̐ȃ̴̡̮͔͝ ._ [5] I’ll live.”

He can feel them smile. He doesn’t need to see it… but he wants to.

He pulls back -

.

The first sight that greets Athros upon waking, is the same wooden ceiling of the shem building that had greeted him the last time he had woken. The ache in his arm is back, more of a dull throb compared to the searing fire of when he was trying to seal the breach.

He sits up, opening and closing his left hand experimentally. The mark is still there.

He traces it with his finger. Nothing. No texture nor bumps, just the faint glow of green magic.

Something thumps, and his head snaps up.

A bare-faced elven woman stares at him, a mix of fear and something else in her expression. “I - I’m so sorry. I had no idea you were awake - I swear!”  
  


Athros’ brows furrow, swinging his legs off the bed to face the woman fully. “... It’s alright, you don’t have to be sorry-”

The woman falls to her knees, head bowed. “Please, I ask for your forgiveness. I am but a humble servant - I did not mean to offend -”

With a stomach churning in discomfort, Athros tries to stand - “It’s really fine, you didn’t -” and falls. 

Pins and needles erupt throughout his legs, weak and shaking.

“My Lord!?” The woman nears him, but her hand freezes and hovers over his shoulder.

“I’m fine - I’m…” he takes a shuddering breath, “why did you bow? Why did you call me… ‘lord’?” he decides to ask instead.

The woman shifts back, eyes downcast. “They say you saved us... The Breach stopped growing, just like the mark on your hand. They say you were _sent_ to save us - it’s all anyone has talked about for the last three days!”

Athros feels himself still. “Three days?” His throat is dry.

The woman nods. “Yes! You were -” she catches herself and bows her head, “I’m so sorry my Lord, it’s not my place to talk to you like this - I don’t - I don’t mean anything by it.” Standing, she bows again, “I’m sure Lady Cassandra will want to know you’ve wakened. She said ‘at once’!”

For a second, Athros can feel the ghost hold of a gloved hand on his shoulder, and he shrinks in on himself. “I don’t want to see her.”

The elven woman, who had been backing slowly, stills, a brief flash of panic crossing her face. “M-my Lord - she said at once. She has eagerly been awaiting for you to wake -”

Athros hugs his legs tightly to his chest. “She can wait longer.” It’s a mutter, but the woman overhears it. She shuffles nervously, the movement prompting him to lift his head. “What’s your name?”

The woman startles. “M-my - my name?”

Athros nods, arms still wrapped around his legs.

The woman hesitates.

“My name is Adani, your worship.”

Athros can feel his eyebrows shoot up at the title. “ _Worship_ \- ?” He sighs, a hand leaving its clutch on his pants to rub at his eyes, “never mind. I don’t care.” He looks up at the woman - _Adani_ \- and smiles shyly.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you Miss Adani,” he hesitates for a moment before he stands, hand outstretched, “my name is Athros.”

Adani stares at his hand, dumbstruck. He wiggles it slightly, before frowning. “Are you okay?”

She blinks and backs up. “Oh yes, of course, my Lord - it’s simply that no one knew your name -”

“… I don’t know why you’re calling me these strange titles, but they’re not mine… can you call me Athros, please?”

Adani takes another step back, eyes wide. “My Lo - I do not think it would be proper for a servant to call you by your name -”

Athros frowns again. “You’re a person, of course you can use my name. I don’t care if you’re a servant.”

She gulps, looking between Athros and the box on the floor. Then, slowly, uncertainly, she nods. “I thank you for the privilege of using your name, Athros.” 

“It’s not a privilege -”

The door slams open, a tall human woman in red and white robes bows in through the door, face stern. “Girl! You were supposed to deliver the elfroot and get right back - I had to send another servant to do your chores-” her eyes land on Athros, and she falters. 

Before Athros can get a word out, Adani bows deeply to the woman. “Forgive me! I’ll do their tasks for the rest of the day.” She turns back to Athros, and he feels concern for her back with how much deeper her bow for him is. “It was an honor, your wor - Athros.”

Without so much letting him respond, she turns tail and leaves, slinking past the human woman.

He stares after her, mouth agape.

The new woman sighs, nearing him. “I hope that girl wasn’t bothering you, my lord?”

Athros’ mouth snaps shut. He regards the woman wearily, shaking his head minutely.

“That’s good. Since you are awake, you may go see the Seeker now. She awaits you in the Chantry.”

He does not respond, looking away.

The woman sighs, and turns around. “In your own time, of course, your Worship.”

There goes that title again.

His lips twitch down.

The woman leaves, and he is left alone.

.

The cabin is quiet.

Since Adani’s departure, no one else had entered the cabin. Left to his own devices, Athros had explored the shelves, tables, and corners of the room. His fingers had passed over books he couldn’t read, strummed the strings on a strange instrument he had never seen before, and hesitantly petted a large raven in a cage.

His staff had been propped up by the bed. His scarf - the dirty green one he had refused to part with when he and his mother had gotten changed for the Conclave - was draped over a chair, now clean.

Athros’ fingers grasped at the scarf. Burying his face into it, he takes in a deep breath. The smell of the forest is faint, but remains… the smell of his true home. 

He wraps it around his neck.

His hands then reach for his staff. He checks it over, but the ironbark is as pristine as ever, wooden texture familiar underneath his fingers.

With his two prized possessions on hand, the tightness in his chest unravels somewhat, letting him breathe with more ease. He takes in a gulp of musty wooden air. He needs to go to the Chantry… he needs to face Cassandra.

A quick glance out the window had told him all he needed to know. The Breach is still there. He had failed.

But his hand no longer hurts, and the Breach was the same size as it had been three days prior. He hadn’t failed completely.

With another deep suck of air, he steps towards the door.

.

“Chain him. I want him prepared for travel to the capital for trial.”

Athros’ grip on his staff tightens, eyes focused on Cassandra.

“Disregard that, and leave us.” 

The tangled ball of anxiety lessens some more. The Chancellor approaches Cassandra menacingly, but she stands her ground.

“You walk a dangerous line, Seeker -”

“The Breach is stable, but it remains a threat. I will not ignore it.” Her response leaves no room for argument.

“I tried,” Athros mutters quietly. “I really tried.” Cassandra turns to face him, eyes softening somewhat.

“And yet the Breach remains, and you _live_ -”

“Chancellor - have care with your words.” The Seeker’s voice is akin to a hiss as she comes to stand in front of Athros. “The Breach is hardly the only threat we face, and this _child_ is _not_ one of them.”

“Someone was behind the explosion at the Conclave. Someone Most Holy did not expect. Perhaps they died with the others – or have allies who yet live,” Leliana speaks up. Athros jumps, he hadn’t noticed her.

Roderick sputters. “ _I_ am a suspect?”

Leliana steps forward, hands folded neatly behind her back. “You, and many others.”

Roderick sneers. “But not the one who happens to have the mark that connects him to the Breach?”

Cassandra scowls. “I heard the voices in the Temple. The Divine called to him for help. He had tried to aid her. I do not believe him to be guilty.”

“All of this is a coincidence then?” The Chancellor’s voice is incredulous, “that he survived, that he refuses to give you _any_ information - _you don’t even know his name -”_

“Providence.” Cassandra is firm, stepping aside to allow Roderick to see Athros. “The Maker sent him in our time of need -”

“Why would the Maker send a _child_ -”

“Children are innocent, they do not judge the people of the world as adults do. The Maker sent us one who does not have ulterior motives.”

Athros looks between the two of them, an unexplained sense of _wrong_ creeping up his spine as they speak. “I’m not sent by your god.” The two humans stop, turning their heads to look at him. He shifts uncomfortably. “I don’t believe in the Maker. I don't think He - He isn’t real, so He couldn’t have sent me.”

Cassandra sighs, whilst the Chancellor seems only vindicated.

The Seeker approaches him, kneeling to Athros’ level. “No matter what you are, or what you believe, you are exactly what we needed when we needed it.”

“The Breach remains and your mark is our only hope of closing it.” Leliana reminds him softly.

Athros gulps, looking down at his hand. The mark flickers, but it doesn’t hurt.

He’d promised his mother he’d live - he’d _promised_ … but how was he supposed to live in a world on the constant brink of danger and collapse?

The shems around him continue to argue, though the tide seems to shift in Cassandra’s favour as she slams an ornate book onto the table.

Athros does not listen, his entire focus on the green light and his thoughts.

To live he’d need the world to be safe… but with the Breach, that would be nigh impossible.

…

His head lifts, watching the Chancellor leave.

Athros is the only being with the power to close the Breach and stop the suffering. His chest tightens. _So much responsibility… I’m not ready._

.

_“Did she want to become the Hero of Ferelden?” Athros asks Amae._

_She shakes her head. “She had only ever wanted a quiet life with her clan. When she was infected with the Blight… she had not been ready.”_

.

The world doesn’t care if you’re prepared or not. His eyes close.

When they reopen, Leliana and Cassandra have stopped talking, looking at Athros expectantly.

He glances between them, hand reaching up to clutch at his scarf.

_For Amae_.

“I’ll help… I have to.”

Cassandra and Leliana share small smiles. The former returns to her place in front of him, getting down on one knee. “Help us fix this before it’s too late.”

She offers her hand. It’s gloveless.

Athros looks between her and her hand.

He places his small hand in hers, and they shake. What he thought would feel like a deal with a demon rather feels like a release.

Cassandra stands, placing a hand on the book.

“As of this moment, I declare the Inquisition reborn.” She turns to Athros. “Thank you for choosing to help us, child.”

A pause.

A nervous shuffle.

A quiet word.

“What?”

A look up at two human women.

“Athros. My name is Athros.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Elvish**
> 
> [1] _Bellanaris din'an heem_ \- Make you dead[⇑]  
> [2] _Fen'Harel ma halam_ \- Dread Wolf end you[⇑]  
> [3] _Ir abelas_ \- I’m sorry[⇑]  
> [4] _Nuvas assan dirasha mar vhenan_ \- May an arrow find your heart[⇑]  
> [5] _Ma’enlea_ \- My light[⇑]
> 
> **.**
> 
> It's Wednesday my dudes.
> 
> Eyyy we got through the first quest :DDD
> 
> Not that anyone cares but im so sad u can't just, bring the raven in the herald's haven house around with you. Athros names it Floof btw.
> 
> ALSO - I made an Athros Spotify playlist if anyone wants to give it a listen :D (its a bit early so many of the songs won't quite make sense but WHO CARES - maybe they'll give u guys clues or theories lol. Anyways the link is below <3  
> [ The Wolves in your Reflections Playlist ](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/2rHVde4uu4wVDh9AiTp3Lf)
> 
> See yall next week!


	4. The Naturality of Illiterate Literacy

The past day and a half had been hectic, a new bustle taking over Haven - the village that the Inquisition had decided to make its home base. 

Athros had mainly stayed away from the work, from the soldiers and messengers that ran to and fro. From the large man that had hammered something Athros couldn’t read into the larger doors of the Chantry. To Leliana, and her ravens that seemed to be everywhere - watching. From Cassandra, who spent much of her time marching across the village, checking in with the tumult of activity.

Keeping to dark corners, hidden from the eyes of people who called him “blessed” or “Herald”, he felt safe enough to breathe. Scratching at the gauze that the apothecary had applied to his cheek when he had fallen the day before, he tugs one of the books he had smuggled from the Chantry out from his bag.

Eyes focused on the symbols that decorate the pages, Athros frowns as they seem to shift, mind unable to concentrate on the letters for more than a few seconds at a time.

“You okay there, Edel?”

Athros startles, head hitting against the bottom of the table he had nestled himself under. Varric winces. “Ah, sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you.”

Athros just rubs his head. “It’s alright,” he mumbles, “my fault.”

Varric shakes his head, sitting next to Athros. “Still, sorry about that.” He looks at the book’s cover, and his eyes widen. “Didn’t think a kid like you would be interested in Hard in Hightown.”

“Hard in Hightown?” Athros blinks. “What’s that?”

“What - it’s the book you’re holding… rather, _my_ book.” Varric takes the book from Athros’ hands, flipping through the pages, and winces. “Yeah, Edel, I really don’t think you want to read this one.”

“I can’t read it,” Athros grumbles.

Varric doesn’t seem too shocked. “Many people can’t read, don’t feel too bad.”

“Amae tried to teach me, but I could never learn…”

Varric goes quiet at that, handing the book back to Athros wordlessly. Placing it beside him, Athros fiddles with his scarf, waiting for Varric to speak again.

Varric coughs slightly awkwardly. “So… I’ve been meaning to ask you - now that Cassandra’s out of earshot - are you holding up all right? I mean, you go from being the largest suspects in Thedaisian history for treason, to joining the armies of the faithful. Most people would have spread that out over more than one day.”

Athros’ fingers trace the woolen patterns of his scarf, his free hand unconsciously going to his chest, where the imprint of a pendant is hidden underneath the knitted muffler. “So many people died, and I’m… I’m alone now,” he whispers

His dwarven companion sighs, leaning back against the table. “A lot of good men and women didn’t make it out there.” He shakes his head. “We stared at the Breach for days before you woke up, watching demons and Maker-knows-what falling out of it. Morale was at an all time low, the Divine was presumed dead… I still can’t believe you were up there and lived.”

“... I’m still hoping this is a nightmare… that I’ll wake up back in the rainforest, and that none of this ever happened.” Athros admits quietly, bringing his knees up to his chest. The book lays in front of him, unintelligible as ever.

“Me too, Edel. Me too.” He straightens, and stretches. “A piece of advice though? Run as soon as you can. Find the opportunity and take it. I’ve written and told enough tales to see where this is going, and tragedy is the only outcome.” He pats Athros’ shoulder. “Heroes are everywhere. I’ve seen them in action. But the hole in the sky? That’s… you’re a kid is all I’m saying. Live for yourself, while you can.”

The sound of footsteps receding have Athros lifting his head, unfocused green eyes looking forward. _Live for yourself_ , huh. He lowers his head again. _That means staying here._

“And, hey, Edel?”

Athros looks up at the dwarf.

Varric smiles slightly. “I’ll be here if you need me. Just call.”

He exits the room before Athros can respond, leaving him with his thoughts, fingers curling and straightening the corner of a page, over, and over.

.

Legs dangle down from the beams that hold up the roof of the tavern. The heat that travels upwards from the fire and the hot mug of tea that sits by Athros’ side keep him nice and toasty as he watches the people below.

“Um, Athros?” A voice calls out from below him. His lips quirk up and he dips his head below the rafters, looking for Adani. She waves at him, standing on the precipice of the doorway, shoulders hunched in the cold. He takes a final sip from his mug and swings down, careful not to land on anyone - not that too many people were drinking in the middle of the day.

“Adani?”

Adani smiles nervously at him. “Seeker Pentaghast requires your presence in the Chantry.”

Athros pouts. “Again?” 

“I’m afraid so.”

His pout deepens, big eyes staring up at his new friend. “Accompany me?” 

She smiles, opening her mouth to reply - 

“Girl! Get the Herald, then get back to work!” A loud call is heard from across the street. Adani winces, rubbing the back of her head. 

“I wish I could, but the Madam has had a very short temper lately, I do not wish to upset her.” Her hand falls as she sighs, but a small smile grows on her face as she looks back to Athros. “I’ll try to do it next time, my - Athros.”

He nods slightly, a smile mirroring her own. 

They part ways outside the warmth, feet crunching already pressed snow that many soldiers have to be careful not to slip on when running around. Cassandra is at the Chantry doors when he arrives, arms crossed loosely across her chest.

“Good morning,” she greets him, opening the doors to the large building.

“G‘morning,” he mumbles, grateful to be out of the biting cold, even if it had only ailed him for a few minutes.

They walk side by side down the carpeted corridor in silence, Athros glancing around at the few Chantry sisters that stay to the edges, huddling in quiet conversation. One of them looks up, attempting - and failing - to gesture discreetly at his marked hand. He lifts it up, looking at it again. The faint light remains, as present and intangible as it had been for the past few days.

“Does it bother you?” Athros nearly jumps as Cassandra’s voice breaks the silence. 

_Of course_. 

He shakes his head. “It’s fine…” he mutters, dropping the hand and tucking it into a pocket. “It… doesn’t hurt anymore,” he tacks on lamely, eyes fixed on the door to the Inquisition’s makeshift war room. 

“We take our victories where we can. I am glad that it is no longer causing you discomfort.” She stops, looking down at him. “Solas believes that a second attempt to close the Breach may succeed - provided the mark has more power.”

Athros frowns. “I used all I had…” he says quietly, digging his fingers into the palm of his hand.

“We know. He thinks that we would need the same amount of power used to initially open the Breach. You cannot be expected to close it on your own, that amount of power is hard to come by.”

_Those who seek and abuse power are always given their due._

“What if something goes wrong?” Athros looks away, up at the wooden dogs that decorate the walls of the chantry. “What if we make a mistake and give power to someone bad?”

“And people call me a pessimist.” Cassandra almost sounds amused. “We’ll be careful, of course. But for now, come. You must meet the others.”

She begins walking again, Athros trails behind her, watching the light catch the statues of Andrastian figures that stand by the door. Cassandra pushes said door, and the both of them walk into the war room, three figures already standing around the table.

Cassandra introduces the two new ones, including the large blond man that had been hammering something to the Chantry door the day before. Athros gravitates towards the woman in the ruffle-y yellow dress - Josephine - the man has a hand resting on his sword, it’s scary. At least Josephine knew a bit of Elvish. 

“I mentioned that your mark needs more power to close the Breach for good.” Cassandra says, taking Athros’ attention from the sheathed sword at the commander - _Cullen’s_ \- side.

Leliana steps forward, hands folded behind her back as usual. “So, we must approach the Rebel Mages, they are the most well suited to aid us.”

Cullen’ face sours slightly. “You’re still on about that? The Rebel Mages could be dangerous - the Templars could serve us just as well - if not better -”

Athros gulps. His mind wanders to a bloodied campsite, armoured bodies littering the clearing. Amae held onto his bruised arm softly, pressing freshly conjured ice to it, ignoring the still freshly bleeding wound on her face. 

_“I’m sorry,” she whispers, holding him close, “I should never have brought you so close to a Shem city. Templars these days have gone savage.”_

_Blood seeps through her bandage as she wraps her eye, Athros’ bruise already numb. “Athros.” His gaze shifts slightly to the right, away from the red. Her remaining purple eye calms him somewhat. “If you ever see any soldiers with this armour,” she gestures to the metal with the imprinted sword, “you run, and you hide. They’ll only ever mean you harm.”_

Blinking back into the conversation, the Commander is speaking again. “Templars could suppress the Breach, weaken it so–”

“Commander, baseless speculation isn’t befitting of someone who controls the battlefield.” Leliana’s voice is clipped.

The Commander scowls openly this time. “ _I_ was a Templar. I know what they’re capable of, the same reason I know that going to the mages may be our end.”

Athros’ body inches closer to Cassandra, eyes fixed on the flaming sword symbol on his bracer. 

“Unfortunately, neither group will even speak to us yet. The Chantry has denounced the Inquisition – and you, specifically.” Josephine says, looking at Athros.

“Me?” 

Her head tilts - a nod - “Some are calling you - an elf - the Herald of Andraste. That frightens the Chantry.”

Athros’ eyebrows shoot up. “So that’s -” he blinks a few times, “me?”

Josephine nods.

“But… I’m not human - I don’t believe in her, or your god, or _anything_ …” his hand reaches for his face, where he had one day hoped to have the markings that the Dalish have.

“People saw what you did at the temple, how you stopped the Breach from growing. They have also heard about the woman seen in the rift when we first found you. They believe that was Andraste.”

Leliana inches forward. “Even if we tried to stop that view from spreading–”

“Which we have not,” Cassandra quickly adds, earning a small frown from Leliana. She shakes her head and addresses Athros again,

“The point is, everyone is talking about you.”

Athros stares blankly at her.

“It’s quite the title, isn’t it? How do you feel about that?” the Commander asks, a small smile on his face.

Athros doesn’t smile back, subconsciously holding onto Cassandra. “I don’t like it. It’s not true.”

“People are desperate for a sign of hope. For some, you’re that sign.” Leliana’s voice is soft, possibly meant to be reassuring.

“And to others, a symbol of everything that’s gone wrong.”

Josephine may have not intended it, but the words hurt. Athros looks down, guilt climbing up his throat and clogging it.

“But there is a way in which we can rectify this,” Leliana steps forward, placing a letter on the table. “A Chantry Mother called Mother Giselle has offered to aid the Inquisition, and wishes to speak with you.”

“Why?”

“I imagine she agrees with the Inquisition's goal, and disagrees with what her sisters have been saying. Regardless, we could use her help.” 

Athros nods, the movement slightly hindered by uncertainty, “where is she?”

“You’ll find her in the Hinterlands.”

.

After going over their plans, Cassandra had left Athros to his own devices, telling him to rest up for their journey south west the next morning. He had left the meeting as a bundle of nerves and slight excitement. He and Amae would usually be on the other side of the Frostbacks when going south, he could only remember going to the south of Ferelden once.

He cuts left, hoping that his tea hasn’t cooled down too much in the hour that he’d been gone from the tavern.

“The Chosen of Andraste,” a voice calls to him as he walks towards the stairs, “a blessed hero sent to save us all.”

Solas sits on a wall, a small smile upon his lips.

“I don’t want to be a hero,” Athros says, losing whatever little happiness he had built up. He approaches the other mage, thumb lightly tracing the mark. “I just want to seal the Breach… then I can go home,” he admits quietly.

Solas’ face twists for a second, before he turns, facing the Breach. “A noble sentiment - pragmatic, but ultimately, irrelevant.” 

“Wh -” Athros can feel his eyes widen, his lips pulled down in an instant frown. The other elf isn’t looking at him, focused on the hole in the sky. Athros can feel his lips quiver, and he looks away, nails digging into the mark as it sparks. _Is that it?_ he wonders. _Am I just the mark now… do_ I _no longer matter_? He squeezes his eyes shut. He doesn’t want that… it’s lonely.

“-- Every great war has its heroes.” Athros opens his eyes just as Solas turns. “I wonder which one you’ll be.”

Athros gulps. “I don’t want to be a hero,” he repeats.

What else could he say?

Solas’ eyes narrow.

He looks sad.

He turns away again.

“Many of those I have watched in the Fade did not want their positions either. History was not kind to most.”

Athros walks closer to him, focusing on this new curiosity rather than the knot of emotions festering in his chest. “You walk the Fade.”

“I do. Ruins and battlefields have histories and are steeped with death. They attract spirits, who press against the Veil, and lessen the barrier between our worlds. When I dream in such places, I can travel deep into the Fade, farther than most. I can see memories that no other living being has ever seen.”

Athros nods along, then his eyebrows scrunch up in thought. “But… how can they be memories if no living being has seen them? They needed to be lived first, right? Thus seen.” 

Solas pauses at this, considering. Then he smiles slightly. “That is a point that I will concede. I find memories that no living being has ever seen outside of those who have experienced them,” he amends.

Athros nods again, before his eyebrows scrunch again. “Amae said the Fade twists things.” He looks up at Solas with big eyes. “Be careful, _hahren_ , you may find something that should have stayed forgotten.” 

“I take precautions to avoid possession, I have no wish to become a demon’s tool.” Solas assures Athros, although he sounds rather offended. Athros winces. Yet another thing he cannot do right. “Speaking of caution, you should be careful. Cassandra’s protection will only last as long as she does.”

Athros’ eyes widen. “You think she’ll die too?” He hates how afraid he sounds.

Solas blinks, then takes a step back, as if realising something. “No… no of course not.” He clears his throat, turning away. “Forget what I said, you will be fine.”

There’s a silence as Athros watches Solas and Solas watches the sky.

“I will stay then,” Solas says after a while, “It will be interesting to see how this fledgling Inquisition grows, and,” he sighs, “it would be remiss of me to not protect the one most affected.”

“You weren’t going to stay?” 

“I do not have a divine mark protecting me, Herald,” Solas reminds Athros, not seeing the twisted look of unease that passes over his face at the title, “and I am an apostate mage surrounded by Chantry forces.” 

Athros quietens at this, glancing past the wall and down to a group of chatting soldiers. One of them bears the sigil of the Templars. He holds back the itching urge to run to the nearest bush to hide. “If you’re not safe, then I’m not either,” Athros mumbles. “I’ll also run.”

He does not see whatever look Solas gives him, neither does he really care in that moment. _Will I_ ever _be safe again_ ? The wind carries his hair into his eyes, and he brushes them away with a bitter smile. _Not that elves are ever safe._

“In any case, let us hope that either the mages or the templars have the power to close the Breach.” He nods to Athros. “I’ll be retreating indoors. Farewell, Herald.”

There goes the title again.

“Athros.”

Solas stops short in his retreat. “Pardon?”

“My name isn’t Herald, it’s Athros…  _hahren sathan melinas ra_ [1] .”

A pause.

“Do you find the title uncomfortable? 

“Yes.”

Solas considers him, “I imagine that telling your believers to use your name must catch them off guard, if not frightening them more than they already are. A name is something private, personal, _powerful_. They currently see you as a holy symbol, to utter something other than your title would be like calling onto Andraste.”

Athros backs away slightly. “But - that _isn’t_ me! I’m… I’m just Athros -- I’m certainly not a Herald.”

“A title can be potent and influential, I would suggest using it.”

“Power corrupts,” Athros mutters, “power makes people do bad things… I don’t want it. I’ll become bad, lonely -- isolate myself and live in fear and paranoia… that’s no way to live...”

Another stretch of silence. Solas gives him a curious look.

“You speak with a wisdom that I would not expect out of one so young.”

Athros’ feels the weight of the metal pendant around his neck. “Amae taught me many things… and I don’t forget.”

He walks away after that, feeling the burn of Solas’ gaze on the back of his head.

Deciding not to return to the Tavern, Athros sneaks another book from a random house into his cottage, shuffling underneath a table, and opening to the first page.

“T - T - L?” He squints at the ever moving letters. “No. T… T… H - H - E…” He groans as the third letter shifts again.

“TH - E… B? No, no it’s E… THE -... Y?” He pours all his focus into the tiny symbols, trying to piece together the first word. “They… s… ssss…” 

The book flies out of his hands, hitting the opposite wall with a dull thump and prompting an indignant squawk from Floof, who walks around his cage in agitation. Athros crosses his arms, repeatedly bumping his head into the wall behind him. 

“I hate books…”

.

The Hinterlands are a special kind of beauty. While the greens are duller in the winter-y afternoon sun than the Graves are, the rivers and ponds, crystal clear as all mountain water is - are gorgeous. The cliffs and peaks that rise high above the group as they ride atop their respective horses and ponies tower into the skies, almost piercing them.

Still, it is ridiculously cold for a day that has ne’er had a cloud in sight. The sun shines bright, but the heat is nowhere to be felt. Well, at the very least, it is warmer than Haven.

Athros watches the scenery pass by from Cassandra’s horse through heavily lidded eyes, idly petting the horse’s coat. “We’ll soon be upon the Inquisition campsite,” Cassandra tells him, focusing on the road ahead rather than their surroundings.

Athros wordlessly nods, rubbing at his eyes in an attempt to get rid of the crust that had accumulated. 

“You rest up alright?” Varric asks from his pony, an easy smile on his face. “You looked like you hadn’t slept a wink when we rode out this morning.”

“I couldn’t sleep,” Athros mutters, “‘m not used to sleeping alone.”

He can feel Cassandra stiffen behind him somewhat, Solas’ head bowing slightly from atop his horse a few meters ahead. 

Varric looks up the road again, humming, “Maybe we can get you a mabari - it worked for Hawke.” 

Athros’ head perks up. “A mabari?”

“Yeah, big Ferelden dogs. They’re _everywhere_ here. Statues, paintings, carvings - the actual living, breathing, _slobbering_ monsters themselves.” He sighs, “Whenever Dog was around I _knew_ I’d be out several sovereigns to wash the drool out of my clothes.”

“I do not think that a warhound is the correct solution with this particular predicament,” Solas calls from the front.

“Chuckles, I don’t know if you’ve ever shared a bed with a mabari, but trust me, you’re never not aware that you’re with company,” Varric grumbles. “Besides, you train them properly - and they’ll be doing ‘shake’ instead of chasing after blood mages.”

Athros’ head tilts up to look at Cassandra, stars in his eyes. “Can I?”

“We’ll talk about this later, Athros.” She gives Varric a pointed look. “Mabari are very large animals, and dangerous if not trained properly.”

Athros’ head goes back down, letting out a small huff. 

“As for a more immediate solution - ah, well, we’ll probably be sharing tents, hopefully that’ll help.” Varric smiles at Athros reassuringly. “Don’t worry, Edel, you won’t be alone.”

Athos nods, his own small smile growing on his face. “Can we share a bedroll -” Cassandra chokes above him, “- Amae and I do…” He pauses. “ _Used_ to do it…” he corrects quietly.

The uneasy hush returns when he mentions his mother. Solas turns his head away, Cassandra’s grip tightens on the reins. Varric is again the only one to break it, letting out a laugh that doesn’t seem quite real. “Sure, Edel -” he winks at Athros, “- just don’t complain when I start snoring.” 

Athros giggles a bit, but it dies off, leaving only the sound of hooves hitting dirt and wind rustling leaves and grass. He rubs at his chest slightly, trying to alleviate the ache that appears whenever he speaks of Amae. It doesn’t dissipate.

Mentioning her also seems to make his companions uncomfortable. He leans his head back against Cassandra’s armour. 

Maybe he should stop talking about her.

“We’re here,” Solas announces as they break the treeline, Inquisition soldiers parting to let the party through.

As his companions begin to ready themselves, taking equipment from their saddle packs, Athros lets himself stand, head tilted skyward. With closed eyes, he lets himself feel the wind caressing his cheeks, the sun-warmed dirt beneath his feet, the dappled light creating dancing patterns behind his eyelids.

His eyes open.

_He’s back._

With renewed confidence, he walks back over to Cassandra’s horse, standing on his tippy toes to free his staff from her saddle. His scarf on his shoulders, the ironbark staff a familiar weight in his hands, the pendant resting on his chest. He’s ready to face what the world wants to throw at him.

They walk over to the center of the forward camp, where a dwarven woman waits for them, an easy smile on her face.

“Herald of Andraste,” she greets. “I’ve heard the stories of what you did at the Breach - we all have. It’s rare to have an elf as the face of an organisation, but you’ll get no back talk here, I promise.” 

“Oh, uh, I’m Athros… you don’t need to call me Herald…” He mutters, looking down.

“Yeah, the kid doesn’t really like the whole ‘Chosen of the Maker’ stuff,” Varric chuckles.

Athros nods slightly, glancing at Solas. “Um… if using my given name is too strange, you can call me Lavellan.” He shifts farther behind Cassandra’s legs as all eyes focus on him. “Um… that was Amae’s clan… so…” 

The dwarf woman nods, a small grin on her face. “Whatever you’re comfortable with. I’m Inquisition Scout Harding, at your service.”

“Harding?” Athros asks, blinking. “Like Hard in Hightown?”

A pause.

Cassandra twists to look down at him, while Varric brings up a hand to his mouth, tiny snickers sounding from behind it. A small wheezing “He beat me to it” escapes through his fingers.

“... No?” 

“Oh…” Athros can feel his cheeks heating. The one time he can actually read a few words, they help him embarrass himself - _of course_.

Despite the small hiccup, Scout Harding summarises the situation in the Hinterlands. Not good, as it turns out. Mages and Templars fighting behind every tree, refugees caught in the crossfire, innocents mistaken as sympathisers from either side and punished for it. Needless to say, they were much more cautious as they began their trek down to the crossroads. 

As they near their destination, Cassandra stops Athros, gloved hands on clasping his shoulders. “We will have to fight, child, and these are not demons.” He gulps. “You are to stay behind hidden at all times, away and uninvolved in the fighting, understood?”

“But what if -”

“No.” Her voice is firm. “Stay away from the fighting, and stay _hidden_. We will deal with templars and mages.” 

With no room left for argument, all he can do is nod, hands tightening on his staff. “These are human beings, not demons,” Solas mutters as Cassandra resumes her march downhill. “You are young, and have no need to dirty your hands quite yet.” His eyes are distant. “Let us take care of it.”

“Okay -” an arrow lands at Cassandra’s feet, and ice covers Solas’ staff as he pulls Athros behind him.

“Stay behind me!”

That is where Athros stays through the three waves of mages and templars as his companions fight their way along the road to the crossroads. Keeping to their promises, Cassandra, Varric, and Solas keep all enemies far away from Athros, drawing their fire and ire away from their charge.

In turn, Athros keeps himself small and silent, even as men and women’s lives are ripped, shot, and frozen from their bodies before his eyes. The pain in his chest increases as both Solas and Cassandra try to reason with their assailants, but all their words fall on deaf ears, bloodlust overtaking all reason.

So when his companions are finally done, Athros is not sorry to have covered his ears, squeezing his eyes shut to block out the slaughter. Only a gentle touch from Solas gives him the courage to open his eyes, and even then, he keeps all his attention on the bone that Solas wears above his robes. He doesn’t dare look.

When they’re finally cleared, the hopeful eyes of several dozen refugees land on the group, a few gravitating towards the faintly glowing mark on Athros’ hand. The rest bow their heads, life stripped from their faces, faith too shattered to hope, even as the immediate danger stands vanquished. Stretchers seem to go on forever, surrounded by chantry sisters. As they pass, the severely injured are too still for comfort.

“ _Hahren?_ [2] ” Solas blinks, looking down at Athros. “Do you -” Athros gestures at the injured, “can you help them?”

The mage is silent for a moment, considering. He then nods, “I should be able to. However -” his eyes land on a man who backs away from a mage, protesting the use of magic, “they may not accept the help of an apostate.”

“Then…” Athros shuffles, playing with his scarf, “please help those who want it.” 

Solas falters for only a moment before nodding, walking over to the nearest stretcher.

Athros looks back to Cassandra and Varric, who wait for him beside an elderly chantry mother… he thinks that maybe, under this particular light, they look proud.

He walks forward. “Mother Giselle? Miss Leliana said you wanted to help?”

.

Athros and Varric sit down heavily on a rock in unison. “So many damn hills!” Varric curses, rubbing at his legs.

“Varric! Watch your words, you’re in the presence of a child!” Cassandra huffs, wiping the wolf blood from her sword.

“Seeker, _please_ , I’m sure that if he weren’t so polite, our little friend would be cursing more than a sailor.”

“Amae swore a lot, but she told me I can only use them when I’m older,” Athros mumbles, unwrapping the footwraps to tighten them - they’ve been falling off a lot lately.

“See? He knows the words already - that’s one step in the right direction.” Varric laughs, steading Athros’ staff as it begins to slip down the rock. “Ugh - speaking of the right direction, when are we going back to camp? I’m exhausted.”

Athros couldn’t help but grumble in agreement. The past month had been constant moving and work. While he and Amae had also traveled much, they hadn’t had to fight or interact with shems nearly as much as he has to now. From hunting for apostate caches for the refugees (which Athros is pretty sure was stealing, but Varric insists it’s “borrowing”), to hunting rams, to traveling to a castle taken over by a cult (they offered him his services - he told them to help the refugees), and closing rifts, Athros hadn’t had much time to do _anything_ other than eat, work, and sleep.

He finishes rewrapping his feet right as Cassandra finishes her own task. “We have yet to find the rest of the herbs that Mother Giselle has requested of us, but,” she glances at Athros, “after that we may return to camp. I feel that we may need to take the afternoon off.”

“My, my, Seeker, are you going easy on me? Be still my heart.”

Cassandra scowls. “Do not even try it, dwarf.”

Athros slides off the rock, leaving the two to their argument. As entertaining as it had begun to be after he realised that the arguments weren’t serious, today had been especially tedious. He walks down the trail, eyes peeled for more elfroot. The faster they can get the roots, the faster he can - 

“Ah!” The rocks beneath his feet shift, sliding down. He tips forward just as a hand catches his arm, stabilizing him. “Ah - Solas… _ir abelas,_ I wasn’t paying attention.”

Solas shakes his head. “There’s no need to apologise, Herald, we all fall on occasion.” 

“Athros,” he corrects, as he always does.

Solas does not reply, as usual, changing the subject, as usual. “It has occurred to me that you mentioned your mother was of a Dalish clan.”

Athros nods, skipping down to where he can see some herbs peeking out from behind a tree. “Clan Lavellan.”

“But you do not consider _yourself_ Dalish?” Athros stops, kneeling to harvest the elfroot.

“I am… but I’m also not…” He bites his lip, trying to come up with an explanation before falling short. With a sigh, he shrugs. “It’s complicated.”

“I have come across many of your people during my travels, they have not always been the most accommodating.” Solas stoops down, picking the roots as the noon sun streams through the trees that tower above them. Athros halts.

“ _My_ people? Aren’t they yours too?”

“I’m afraid the Dalish I met felt… differently on the subject.”

Athros considers Solas for a few seconds, before his hands begin moving again. “Maybe you just didn’t give them enough time to know you, and you them. Amae said that the Dalish are often attacked, even by other elves, so they have to be careful.” He hums as his pile of elfroot begins to grow. “Maybe next time, let them know you, and you’ll be known to each other.”

He scoops up his pile, standing straight, and smiling goofily at the other elf. “I’m sure that if you come back with me to Clan Lavellan, they’d love to meet you.” He turns around, humming Amae’s lullaby, leaving Solas to his thoughts.

His own mind wanders to the necklace that Solas wears on his chest, and his hand flutters up to his own pendant, tracing the etched metal through the fabric of his shirt. Perhaps the Dalish clans that Solas had met had just been too suspicious of an elven mage without vallaslin… 

His hand drops.

Or maybe they took the wolf jaw bone laying on Solas’ chest as a bad omen. 

_Maybe I’ll suggest he take it off the next time he comes across a clan,_ he thinks.

But the sound of Cassandra’s indignant scoff followed by Varric’s boisterous laugh takes his mind away from the strange feeling of nostalgia, and he wonders what they’re going to have for dinner tonight.

.

_F̵͓̻͔̺͇͋́͐͂̄͝e̶̡̢̻͙̘͓̅̿n̷̫̙͕̓͂̆̈͐̈͌͑ ̷̼͚͉͚̪̣̈́͆i̷͉͛n̸̛̼̋͊̽͋́͌a̴͙̗̺̓͆̍̅̎͘͜n̵̥̖̾̀a̶̛̳̫̮̣͂̀̿̾͜͝͠n̴̢͓͈̺̯̫̼͒͒̋̈͌͠._ [3]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Elvish** :
> 
> [1] _Hahren sathan melinas ra_ \- Please use my name[⇑]  
> [2] _Hahren_ \- Elder[⇑] (a term of respect for one older than you, they don’t have to be literally old)  
> [3] _Fen inanan_ \- The wolf watches[⇑]
> 
> ___________________________
> 
> I don't even know what that chapter title is hahahahahaha
> 
> Casual extreme dyslexia is extreme
> 
> Also hnnnnn STOP BEING MEAN TO ATHROS (i say, writing the bullying myself)
> 
> Had a bit of a lull writing recently - blame noverture, she's the one who got me into dreamsmp - god damn animatics -
> 
> Thank you for reading <3


	5. All Eyes are Drawn to the Light in the Dark

Shems in big dresses and fancy masks part like clouds as Athros and his company walk along the bridge to Val Royeaux’s Summer Bazaar. A few of the Orlesians turn heel and speed walk straight back into the city, others hiding their mouths behind fans, mumbling and whispering amongst themselves. Giggles of ‘knife ear’ and ‘rabbit’ are carried over to the party by the wind, sharp eyes focused on both Athros and Solas.

The city ahead is beautiful by Orlesian standards, Athros supposes. The blue, gold, and white arches, columns, and towers that rise high above them blend and meld perfectly with each other. Perfectly geometric. Perfectly artificial. Even the wind that moves the red ribbons that fly overhead seems to make them dance in perfect sync. 

A portrait of perfection.

A façade that hides cruel games, poverty, and suffering.

Not much unlike a demon.

Athros gravitates closer to Cassandra as they walk, an invisible cloak of safety settles over him as she glares at all the Orlesians who titter too loudly in his direction. 

“You seem quite uncomfortable Edel, you alright?” Varric mutters, twirling a bolt between his fingers.

“Orlesians don’t like elves… whenever we came 'too close' too cities we'd be attacked by soldiers… they’d always have been sent by nobles who ‘wanted us off their land’.” Athros’ lips tighten into a line. “And Amae said they stole the Dales from us, our home… they’re snakes. I don’t like them.” 

Varric chuckles, “On that one, Edel, I can’t disagree.”

“Your home?” Solas echoes from beside him, “the Dales have not belonged to the elves in hundreds of years.”

“I use the term loosely,  _ hahren _ ,” Athros mutters. “Arlathan was also our home, but it no longer exists… I meant that if humans hadn’t insisted that all had to worship the Maker, then perhaps the elves who live in this city wouldn’t live in spaces the size of coffins… maybe the Dalish wouldn’t have to live in fear and hate.”

_ Maybe Amae would still be alive _ is left unsaid, hanging in the air.

“My lord Herald!” A scout runs towards them from the bazaar, bowing to Athros and Cassandra. “The Chantry Mothers await you, but a great many Templars have returned, and wait alongside them.”

Athros tenses. 

“There are templars here?” 

“The people of Val Royeaux seem to think that they’ll protect them… from the Inquisition.”

“But we only want to talk.” Athros looks up at Cassandra. “Will they attack us?”

“I do not think so,” Cassandra sighs, placing a hand on his head. “Do not worry, Athros, no harm will come to you.”

Athros hesitantly nods, the group setting off in the direction of the far end of the market, where the scout had said the Chantry Mothers and templars were waiting. The crowd watches them like hawks as they pass by, guards standing tall with crossed arms, jeering, and spitting their name like a curse.

The platform that the Revered Mother stands upon sets the stage aptly. The Inquisition is beneath the Chantry, they are but the dirty to be stepped upon. The Chantry is holy, untainted, they stand above all. 

“No longer shall you wonder what had become of our beloved Divine’s murderer. Look, people of Val Royeaux, for he stands before you, protected by deserters who claim to fight on her order!” The Mother points at Athros, eyes narrowed. “Behold! The Herald of Andraste - claiming to rise where our beloved fell.” A ripple of murmurs, fearful and hateful stares in all their forms fall upon Athros. “We say this is a false prophet! The Maker would send us no elf in our hour of need!”

Athros shrinks, sandwiching himself between Cassandra and Solas.  _ Too much attention, too many eyes. _ After a deep breath, he looks up at the Chantry Mother. “I - I never claimed to be her prophet… I just… I want to help… The Breach is a danger to everyone… maybe if we join forces we can…” what little fire he has dissipates as the Chantry Mother glares at him, the force of a hundred eyes gazing upon him too strong.

“It’s true!” Cassandra picks up from where he left off. “The Inquisition wishes only to close the Breach in the sky - to end this madness before it is too late!” 

Athros braves looking up and around… no one seems swayed.

“It is already too late!” The sound of metal soles echo around the marketplace, thundering in synchronised marching. Flaming sword sigils appear on the stage, walking past the Mother. Athros freezes, knuckles whitening. “The Templars have returned to the Chantry! They will face this ‘Inquisition’ and the people of Orlais and Ferelden will be safe once more!”

Certainty radiates from her, a satisfaction as she steps back for the ironclad soldiers to take the stage when - 

A fist collides with the back of her head. She’s sent sprawling forward, collapsing upon the wooden platform. The crowd stills, a cacophony of gasps ringing out. The templar spits on her, and despite himself, Athros runs out from behind Cassandra. 

“Stop it!”

The grey eyes of the apparent leader meets his, and he freezes. 

_ Red drips from Amae’s face, the templar’s sword gleaming with fresh blood as he brings it up to finish the job -  _

“You have no right to order anything from us. Her claim to authority is an insult. Much like your own.” His eyes narrow. “A child should be seen and not heard.” 

The templar to his right shifts forward, and the leader swerves, placing a hand on his shoulder. “Still yourself, she is beneath us,” he surveys the crowd with a scowl, “they all are.” He walks off of the platform, flanked by his templars. Athros shakes himself out of his paralysis, set on climbing the stage to aid the Mother, when a hand stills him.

Cassandra shakes her head, and swerves them towards the grey eyes man. “Lord Seeker Lucius!” 

_ Lord Seeker? _ Athros follows behind Cassandra.  _ Then he isn’t a templar - why -? _

“You will not address me.”

Athros watches the interaction with closed fists, quivering imperceptibly. 

“The Templars faced no one when they left the Chantry to go purge the mages-”

“That’s wrong,” Athros says before he can stop himself. When all eyes swerve back to him, the shaking increases. He holds his ground. “You failed the mages… you’ve been failing them for centuries.”

“ _ You _ are the ones who have failed!” the Lord Seeker sneers. “You who would leash our righteous swords with doubt and fear. One who has had no experience cannot speak -”

“I may not have had first hand experiences -” Athros cuts him off again, voice increasing in volume with every word, “- but I have heard countless stories. Tales of abuse, of injustice, of  _ failure to protect _ -”

“Slander and blasphemy! The words of a  _ puppet _ , belonging to a heretical movement means nothing to me! Much less of a feckless  _ knife ear _ who is still wet behind the ears.” He turns to Cassandra, “ _ This _ is the pawn you decided to use as a false Herald? You should be ashamed!” The words pass by Cassandra and echo off of the geometric walls, only the sound of the wind attempts to interrupt him again. “ _ We _ deserve recognition - independence!” 

“But, sir, what if they’re telling the truth - ?”

“You have shown me nothing,” the Lord Seeker ignores the templar, gaze cutting down to Athros, who can do naught but stare wide eyed at the grey haired man, “and the Inquisition and its Herald?  _ Less _ than nothing. Val Royeaux is not worthy of our protection. Templars, we march!”

Giving no time for rebuke or rebuttal, they begin trekking out of the Capital, leaving Cassandra slack jawed while the crowd dissipates, mutters and frightened voices breaking the former silence of the square. 

Athros can feel Solas and Varric’s approach more than he can see it, still looking at the spot the Lord Seeker left in a daze.  _ Why in the name of the Creators did I say that _ ?

Cassandra steps back, pacing in distress. “Has the Lord Seeker gone mad?”

“I think he’s completely serious,” Solas mutters, kneeling next to Athros. “Are you alright?”

Athros jolts, shrinking in on himself. “Yes, I’m fine,” he takes a deep breath and looks up at Cassandra. “Do you think we can persuade them?”

“Yes, not everyone in the order must think like the Lord Seeker - there  _ must  _ be those who see what he’s become.” 

“You’re considering the templars?” All three pairs of eyes focus on Athros at Solas’ question. 

“Um,” Athros shifts his gaze to his feet, wringing his hands, “if possible, I’d like to get both?”

“Both?” Varric chokes on a laugh, “Edel, I don’t think that they’d be willing to work with each other. For every templar that supports mage rights, there are a hundred more who don’t.”

“It wouldn’t be easy…” Cassandra mutters, “and it would cost us much time that we don’t -”

A whizz followed by a clunk cuts her off, an arrow landing but a few centimeters from Athros’ feet. His companions’ reactions are instantaneous, enclosing him and forming a protective circle, sword and shield, crossbow, and staff ablaze before he can blink. Eyes trained upwards, scanning the buildings for glints of new arrows, they’re all too busy to notice the red ribbon and note attached to the shaft of the arrow.

“Wait - I don’t think it was an attack,” he squeezes through their legs before they can respond, grabbing the little note. 

“Athros -” Varric stops short when the small piece of paper is shoved into his face, a wide eyed sulking Athros holding onto it.

“I still can’t read,” he mutters, the tips of his ears darkening in embarrassment. Varric looks up at Solas and Cassandra, who hesitantly put away their weapons, crowding around the note.

Laughing, Varric ruffles Athros’ hair. “Don’t worry about it, Edel. It is  _ always _ a pleasure to read anything out loud to an awaiting audience.” With a wink, he focuses on the note, his expression slowly shifting from what can only be described as cockiness to confusion. “Okay -” the word is drawn out, unsure, “it seems that someone wants to be friends with you.”

Athros stands on his tippy toes, looking at the letter again in excited curiosity to find that he can still see nothing but letters travelling and mixing. “Who?”

“Doesn’t say. ‘pparently they want us to go on a treasure hunt, to the docks, cafe, and -”

“No, no, absolutely not - we must go back to Haven and report on our contact with the templars,” Cassandra says, making a face, “we do not have time for this.”

Varric grins easily, but Athros beats him to it, holding onto her armour, “Cassandra, if they want to help… we should let them. We need more people in the Inquisition, right? Can we do this,  _ please? _ ” He sticks his bottom lip out.

“I - uh - ugh, fine, but we best be quick about it.” Athros grins, and jumps back over to Varric, glancing at the crudely drawn map on the note. 

“To the docks!”

Athros turns, smile diminished as he sees the Chantry Mother, who remains on the platform, sitting still as other members of the Chantry pray behind her. The docks are behind her. With a grounding breath, he approaches her.

“Ma’am… are you okay?”

Some light returns to her eyes, and her head lifts, but she looks past Athros, focusing on the presence behind him. “This victory must be pleasing, Seeker Cassandra. Congratulations, the Chantry is on its knees.”

A hand is placed on Athros’ shoulder, gently pushing him away from the Mother and towards the docks. “We came here only to appeal to the Chantry, Mother. If this is anyone’s doing, it is your own.”

“Did you not push us? Force our hand?” The Mother lets out a bitter laugh. “Do not delude yourself.”

Athros digs his heels into the ground, stopping short of the stairs down from the platform, and turns to face the Mother. “No. You made assumptions, and those assumptions cost you.” He frowns, fingers ghosting over the pendant. “We want to help… and you can too.”

The Mother scoffs, but goes quiet. After a moment she looks up at him, a reversal of positions. “Tell me one thing: do you  _ truly _ believe you are the Maker’s chosen?”

Athros’ face twists. “No. I don’t. And I never will. This,” he brings up his hand, and it sparks, “is not a symbol of divinity. It can’t be.” The final words are spoken in a whisper.

Perhaps his words were convincing, or perhaps she simply wished to get them to leave, but she smiles slightly. “That is… more comforting than you can imagine.”

He salutes, in the traditional Dalish way. “I hope this comfort brings you peace of mind then.” With that, he turns back towards the docks, his companions trailing next to and behind him as they leave the Mother on the platform.

It’s not too hard to find the red cloths, each with a hint that - put together - cheerily let them know that they are being watched (Varric’s words), and gave them a time and a key to meet in a courtyard in Val Royeaux proper. A messenger from a ‘First Enchanter Vivienne de Fer’ (Solas was the one to read the message out loud this time, much to Varric’s disappointment), and a stop at a cafe later - Athros and his companions walk towards the bridge back to the main bulk of Val Royeaux, dusk painting all the white in an orange-pink hue.

Athros sleepily rubs his eyes, glancing wearily at the gallows as they cross the threshold out of the Summer Bazaar...  _ If Chancellor Roderick and the Chantry Mothers had gotten their way _ … he touches his throat softly and turns back to face the road in front of him.

“How do we know this ‘friend’ isn’t just planning an ambush?” Cassandra looked ahead, her hand rhythmically tapping on her sword.

Varric chuckles, “Seeker, you should lighten up, this isn’t Kirkwall, and Hawke isn’t with us. The chance of a planned assassination attempt is a cut by a solid 90%. Besides, the Inquisition needs as many friends as it can cram into one place right now.”

Solas lets out an amused huff, “What would be the odds if he  _ was _ with us?”

“99.9% recurring,” Varric says dryly, before snorting fondly. “The man is a trouble magnet -”

“If I may have a moment of your time.”

.

A fireball hits the wall next to Solas, right above Athros’ head, the latter ducking with a shriek as a few of his hairs singe. Solas steps in front of him, barrier ready as a second ball of fire is sent their way.

“Herald of Andraste!” With only three grandiloquent words, the entire party knows that this is the mysterious ‘baddie’ who their ‘friend’ had mentioned. “You must have spared no expense in your search for me - tell me - how much did this search cost you and your Inquisition?”

Cassandra quickly maneuvers herself around to face the man, sword still drawn and stained with the blood of guards. “We don’t know who you are!” 

The man scoffs, a haughty sound that grates Athros’ nerves. “Preposterous! I’m too important for this to be an accident!” Barely visible eyes behind a mask shift to Athros. “You may have won this time around,  _ Herald _ , but mark my words. My efforts against you will bear fruit eventually -” 

Turning to Varric, he and Athros share a look - Athros one of confusion, Varric one of amusement.  _ “What is he talking about?”  _ Athros whispers.

Varric shrugs a shoulder, grinning. “I think he’s about to tell us all his evil plans,” he chuckles.

There’s a thump, all attention brought to one of the noble’s guards - now collapsed, a dark liquid pooling beneath his body. Behind him stands an elven woman, bowstring pulled taught, arrow pointed at the noble,

“Just say ‘what’!”

“What is the-”

The arrow flies, piercing right through the man’s throat. Athros lets out a small gasp, reaching for his throat before turning wide eyes to the woman. 

“Eww -” Disgust rears its head for a second before she grins, “squishy one. But you heard me, right? ‘Just say ‘what’’, ponce too used to getting what he wants.”

“But - you - you killed him!”

“Yeah~” The elf walks over to the man. “Blah blah blah -” the arrow is yanked from the body and returned to her quiver, “ _ arrow in my face _ . Well, rich tit tried, rich tit died.” She turns to Athros. “Glad to see you followed the notes alright - and” she drags the word out, a look of distaste fixated on his ears, “you’re an elf. Hope you’re not too elfy.” 

Pushing down the sting of the comment, Athros focuses instead on the sudden tension behind him, glancing to find Solas gripping his staff regarding the woman with a clear regard of distaste. “But - you’re an elf too.”

“Well - yeah - but I’m not  _ elfy _ . That one though,” she gestures to Solas, “he seems elfy, all arseholes, backwards and  _ boring _ .” She raises her bow in imitation of a staff, “ELVEN GLORY, and all that, ya know? No, I’m just a friend. But what’s important is that you glow, right? You’re the Herald thingy?” She frowns. “Little tyke ‘stead of a cockwomble nob, though.”

“Uh… I don’t know what that means, but my  _ hand _ glows, I suppose,” Athros mumbles, before coming forward, careful to not step in fresh blood. “Who are you?”

She opens her mouth before shouts ring out from behind her, and her grin grows. “Name’s Sera. This is cover, get round it!” An arrow lands near them, and as has become the norm, Athros is ushered behind cover (should it be cover with a capital C this time around?) and the fighting begins.

It’s quick, rather clean, as pantless men are cut and shot down from all sides, and before long, they’re back facing Sera. A quick rundown of who she is and what she does is all he needs to decide that he likes her, although her new offhanded “not  _ elves _ ,  _ people _ people” comment has him holding back his tongue. They - mostly Cassandra, Athros, and Sera - Solas and Varric seem content to stay out of the conversion - discuss the terms of Sera’s affiliation with the Inquisition, the Red Jennies, and her motivations.

“Welcome to the Inquisition.”

She grins, tossing over a bag to Solas. “A gift. Merchants buy any sorta pish, right?” With a final wave, she runs at a wall, running up and over it with the grace of a trained acrobat. 

“Lovely new friend,” Varric hums, strapping Bianca to his back.

Solas drops the bag in disgust, wiping his hands on a small piece of cloth. “An elf who hates elves.”

_ She’s not the only one _ , an intrusive thought chased away by optimism.  _ It’ll be fine, it’ll all be fine. _

Still, his hand wraps itself around Cassandra’s, digging his face into her leg.

_ It smells so much of death _ .

.

While the letter had been addressed only to Athros, and Cassandra, Solas, and Varric didn’t seem too thrilled at the prospect of entering an Orlesian mansion, their reservations were completely outshone by the collective agreement that letting Athros in alone would be a horrible idea.

So, they walk in together, giving their names to a footman, who repeated (read: yelled) what they’d said down the hall to another man, who did the same, calling their names farther into the house. Upon reaching the threshold into the party hall, their names and titles are announced to the partygoers, a quiet hushing over the extravagantly dressed Orlesians.

As they walk farther down into the hall, the tittering resumes, fans held up to cover mouths, eyes behind masks tracking the quartet. 

“What a pleasure to finally meet you, my lord, my lady.” A man steps forward, bowing slightly to Athros and Cassandra, followed closely by a delicately poised woman. “Fresh faces at these parties are welcome, it is not often we see people outside our circles.” He pointedly ignores Varric and Solas.

“Are you here for Madame de Fer, or possibly Duke Bastien?” The woman speaks up, her voice as dainty as her hand. “Are you here on business?” A small smile behind a giant ruff is directed at the man, then the group. “I have heard the most curious tales about you. I can scarcely imagine any of them are true.”

“It is unlikely they are,” Cassandra says shortly, glancing around. “The Inquisition was invited to this party by First Enchanter Vivienne, where is-”

“The Inquisition! What a load of pig shit!” There’s movement from the stairs as the voice echoes throughout the hall. “Washed up Sisters and crazed Seekers? No one can take them seriously.” A masked man in a ridiculous hat reaches the ground floor, a sneer upon his face. “All they are, are political outcasts, making grabs for power.”

Not this again. Athros steps forward - just a bit - but it grabs the man’s attention. “That’s not true - we just want to close the Breach -”

“Who let this child in here? Go away, I’m looking for this so-called “Herald”. If he were truly a man of honor, he would step outside and answer the charges!” The man announces to the room.

There’s a pause.

People glance at each other, then at Athros.

“Um, I’m not actually a herald… people have just been calling me that…” Athros mutters, rubbing his thumb over the mark.

The man looks back down at him, then laughs. “So this is it? The Inquisition uses  _ un petit lapin _ as a shield to hide behind?” He focuses on Cassandra, a hand reaching for his sword. “You will face me for your crimes-”

Ice covers his body, freezing him in place. The clacking of heels against marble rings out across the deadly silent room as a tall woman begins stepping languidly down the steps. 

“My dear Marquis.”

Athros watches this woman, decorative horns curling up skyward. Magic shifts in the air, the veil thrums, and the feeling is instantaneous. 

This woman is a  _ very  _ powerful mage.

“Spare him.”

“You have your life.”

“Thank you.”

“No need, darling. Allow me to introduce myself. My name is Vivienne, First Enchanter of Montsimmard and Enchantress to the Imperial Court. I have a proposition.”

.

Athros enters his room, slipping out of his shoes and tossing his coat onto a chair, setting down his staff gently, and flopping onto the bed. The day had been exhausting, and  _ terrifying _ . By the end of it, Varric had suggested going to an inn in a more modest part of the city - where eyes would still follow, but the people would have better things to do than stand around chirping amongst themselves.

As he had taken to doing in the small house in Haven, he picks up a rather large pillow and slips underneath the covers. Curling up into a ball he holds onto the pillow. It’s stiffer than the one in Haven - it takes more effort to cling onto it. He buries his head into it, eyes closed. If he pretends hard enough, he can imagine the pillow being warmer, moving gently in tandem with the sound of breathing. 

He calls upon a memory from a few months back, mouthing his words softly into the pillow.

“Amae, tell me a story.”

_ It is late da’len, you had a long and scary day. You should sleep _ .

“I’m not tired.”

_ Da’len you cannot always use that excuse. You are young, and you need your rest. _

“Please? It can be short?”

He imagines the ghost touch of a hand holding the back of his head, thumb gently rubbing circles into his nape.

_ “Mae would be horrified if she was here to see this - very well. A short story.” _

He curls up more, little arms tightening around the cushion. 

“ _ In times long past, when we flew high above the ground, in cities made of clouds and sunlight, there was a poor young huntress. She would sneak from the cities, and go down to the surface. The surface was a harsh place, it was where wars were waged, where monsters dwell - and Ghilan'nain made sure there were always plenty of predators on the prowl. _

_ “She would tread lightly, keeping to the shadows, armed only with her bow and wits. Most days, she would try to find the largest monster, and kill it. Using their bones, skin, and flesh, she could keep her fellows safe, warm, and fed.  _

_ “But one day, the beast she came upon bore lupine form, inky black, with red eyes the colour of blood.” _

“Fen’harel,” Athros whispers into the empty room.

“ _ Yes. He had been watching the huntress, taking interest in her techniques and uses of trickery to end her prey. He challenged her to a duel of wits, she would try to hunt him, but if she could not capture him by sunrise, it would be his turn to hunt. The prize would be a favour, anything the winning party asked. ‘What if I were to survive you till the next sunrise?’ she had asked. The Dread Wolf had laughed, ‘Then the cycle begins anew.’ The huntress had considered the offer - if she won, she could use the favour to get her people what they needed for as long as the Dread Wolf lives. If she lost… _

_ “Selfless and confident in her abilities, she agreed. For an entire day and night, she tracked, trapped, and hunted the Wolf. For the entire day and night, the Wolf misled, escaped, and stayed a step ahead of the huntress. Dawn arrived, and the Wolf waited for the exhausted huntress in a clearing. He gave her ten seconds to run. But the Wolf had underestimated the huntress, who drew her bow. She would not run. They fought for the day, and for the night, and while the huntress was tired and injured, she never let him become the only hunter.  _

_ “Dawn was nearly upon them, the huntress had only to stay free for a few more minutes. But she could not. She succumbed to her wounds, and fell upon the ground, trapped by the Wolf. He had won the bargain. _

_ “The Wolf took his victory, and the huntress was never seen again.” _

“That’s sad.” He mutters, as he had then.

_ “There is an alternate ending, where the huntress triumphed over Fen’harel, using her cunning to trap the Wolf at the first light of the new dawn, and used her boon to get her people what they needed. But da’len, pretty stories are only pretty. It is unlikely that a simple huntress from a city could best a god. Alas, it is only a tale, whether it happened at all is up for debate.” _

Athros’ fingers ghost Amae’s pendant, “Why is Fen’harel so mean?”

She had paused. Then she had pulled him closer. “ _ Go to sleep, Athros. It is late.” _

He hadn’t pushed it.

Athros stays under the covers, before standing, looking outside to see that all light in the sky had been chased away by the darkness of the night. Stars splattered over the canvas like freckles. 

Athros stands, leaving the warmth of the bed.

He can’t sleep.

.

Save for the one time they walked through Llomerryn, this is the first time Athros has tried to navigate a city on his own. Amae didn’t like cities - ‘too many shems’ she had said, warning him of Chevaliers who hunted elves in the alienages for sport. Athros is in the capital of Orlais, the nest of schemes, and “the Game” - as Leliana had called it.

He covers his head and ears with his coat’s hood, keeping to the walls of the streets, head bowed. Distantly, he thinks that perhaps he should have told Cassandra where he was going - or maybe even Varric or Solas - not that even Athros himself knows.

He wanders aimlessly, lost in his thoughts and memories, until the smell brings him out of his musings. Focusing, he no longer finds himself in the relatively clean streets of the middle class. The road had somehow turned to dirt beneath his feet, the stone buildings to wood. It’s empty.

_ I don’t think I should be here _ .

He turns around, somehow expecting the road to reappear - but only the dirt road stretches out ahead of him. He takes a few steps and peeks around a corner. Dirt and wood. He frowns, closing his eyes and concentrating. He had left the inn, walked straight, taken a left, walked straight for three more stretches, walked right, walked straight some more and…

He opens his eyes in a panic. He can’t remember. 

He starts running back the way he came from, hoping for a visual cue to trigger his memory. But after a few minutes, it’s clear that he cannot remember what he had not been paying attention to.

His breathing elevates, heart pounding so loudly in his chest he almost expects it to wake the inhabitants of the wooden houses. He shambles over to a wall, sitting down in the dirt with his knees hugged to his chest.

_ Breathe _ \- Amae’s voice rings in his head.  _ In for four seconds, hold for five, out for six. Come on, breathe with me _ .

In - one, two, three, four. Hold - one, two, three, four, five. Out - one, two, three four, five, six. Repeat.

By the sixth round, he opens his eyes again, somewhat calmed. A shadow looms over him. He looks up. An elderly elf stands over him.

“Ah -" he hates how weak he sounds, " _ andaran atishan _ .”

The elderly elf blinks, looking at him closer, a realisation passing over her face. “One of our people -” She shakes her head, “It is not safe outside at night,  _ da’len _ . You should return home.”

“I’m lost,” he whispers.

She frowns, looking behind her briefly, before sighing, “I do not recognise you, you are not from the Alienage.”

Athros shakes his head. “My… group - are staying at  _ La Plume _ .”

The elven woman sighs again, but offers him a hand, “I can lead you to the Montreux District, will you know your way then?”

“Ah - yes. Thank you,  _ hahren _ .” 

.

“Herald!” Cassandra shouts, face hard as she runs over to him. Athros bows his head, eyes cast down in shame. “Where have you been - we’ve been looking for you for two hours!”

“I went for a walk -”

“You should have told one of us - we’d have accompanied you!” She clasps his shoulders, her own slumping. “We were worried.”

“I’m sorry.” He glances back, seeing the elven elder watching with interest and confusion in equal measures. Upon their eyes meeting, she waves, and disappears behind the stone walls of the Montreux District. She never told him her name.

Cassandra straightens, rubbing her temple. “No, it is fine. What matters is that you are safe. Let us return to the inn.”

He follows her silently. All that remains in the streets are the occasional night guard, who regard them with suspicion, hands resting on their swords. Athros pulls his cloak further down his head, smooshing his ears down.

“Why did you leave the inn?” Cassandra asks once they enter his room, shutting the door behind him.

Athros rubs the back of his neck, before quietly admitting, “I couldn’t sleep. It’s… too still in this room.” Going quiet, Cassandra watches him, prompting him to get into bed. For the second time, he crawls onto the bed, picking up and placing the pillow on his lap, nervously playing with it as Cassandra sits in the chair next to him.

“I… it occurs to me that I do not know much about you… and you haven’t spoken much of your mother ever since the Conclave. If you need - I’ll be here to listen.” 

A silence overtakes the room, Cassandra sits with her eyes fixed on the window, Athros focuses on the pillow, feeling the feathers that fill it through the fabric. The occasional bark of a dog breaks the fragile stillness, only for it to still like water.

“Amae and I didn’t live with her clan,” Athros finally mutters. “She used to be the First, but her passion related to history, to knowledge… she did not feel that she was fit to be Keeper - to lead. So, her position was given to the Second, and she left the clan in pursuit of old knowledge…” He leans back, staring at the ceiling, remembering how she always seemed so proud of her choice. “She said that the only way to move forward is to learn from the past, and that while not always pleasant, history is important. The shems destroyed so much of what we once were - first they enslaved us, and when we finally gained our freedom, they tore it away from us again. To recover even a fraction of it, she always said, would be more steps towards both preserving and improving our culture.”

“And you travelled with her? What of your father?”

Athros shrugs. “I don’t have a father. I just had Amae… and yes. I would join her as we found and explored ruins, buildings from empires that crumbled under their own weights, that fell to their own hubris. I would find ancient manuscripts, and would remember each word that she translated. We would observe murals, long since fallen victim to the passage of time - dull and colourless from age, and theorise what stories they may have once told…”

Cassandra stares at him for a few seconds, processing his words, before her eyes narrow. “That sounds dangerous. Creatures lurk in the dark - what if you had gotten injured?”

“Amae wouldn’t let that happen,” he instantly said, almost shortly. “She is - she  _ was  _ always there… And - usually - as long as we respected the space, the spirits and history - nothing would hurt us.” A dog howls in the distance, and Athros remembers the story he had recalled early that night. “But… my favourite part of the day was at night, after hours of exploring, travel, or rest, we would sit around the campfire, and - and she would tell me stories. She’d use the fire to create images -” he stops for a moment, blinking quickly to hold back the tears, ignoring that his voice would betray him all the same “- and she would grant me new knowledge, a new moral or advice - wisdom that could be applied to the real world.” He has to halt again, taking a breath. Finally he whispers his final words, “She would never lie, never soften the cruelty of the world. But she’d still make me feel like nothing could ever harm me.”

The stillness that follows is heavy, almost suffocating as Athros does his best not to break down into tears - he hasn’t been able to since he woke after the Breach was stabilised. Athros knows that he hadn’t  _ let  _ himself think too hard about her, not to the point where he’d feel anything more than a dull ache in his chest.

Cassandra shifts slightly, voice surprisingly soft. “She must have been a wonderful mother.”

Athros sniffs, nodding jerkily. “She was.”

Another pause. Another two internal debates. Another offer.

“Writing and telling stories does not come naturally to me, but, if you would like, I could try to fill the silence as you fall asleep.” Athros lifts his head, wide green eyes staring into her own, and she stands abruptly. “Of course, my stories would not compare to your mother’s - it was a ridiculous suggestion -”

A hand flashes out and holds onto her sleeve, halting her ramble. “no, please… stay.” Athros doesn’t look at her. She offered - but what if she doesn’t actually want to? What if he’d forcing her into a commitment that she would rather not be forced into? What if - 

She sits back down. A moment passes, Athros returns to his position in the bed, waiting.

“Uh - once upon a time…”

.

The Dales stretch out on the horizon. Rocky plains as far as the eye can see, split by crystalline rivers flanked by beds of purples flowers.

Walking closer to the flowers, a single bud is picked. It’s the same colour as the iris’.

The river is cold underfoot, water rushing past freely, unconcerned with the new obstacle that had placed itself in its path. Every single body of water has a history.

What history does this one have? What secrets does it hold?

The stream shudders, as if debating whether it should reveal itself.

It decides that it should. And so the river runs red. Viscosity increases, and it sticks to the skin like sap. Heads and pointed ears begin floating, overflowing the sides and dyeing the flowers until no other colour remains. A head bobs gently forwards. It turns with the current, and its eyes are closed.

Move out of the way, but movement is hard, too slow. A head touches living flesh and mouths twist into painful screams. All eyes open at once. 

Eyes the colour of pretty flowers.

.

Athros wakes up screaming his mother’s name.

.

_E̴͉͉̜̻̙͔̙͙͒̂̓͋̾͝͝š̵͙̖̪̤̺̮̒̿̍̆̄͋h̷̳̗͙̎̈́͆̈́̓͆͝͝'̴͚̘̥̮͌̓̈́̽͠a̴̗̟͖̹͕̳͋͆̆͗͆͆͘n̷͔̟͉͊ ̵͇͇̹͔͙̜̠̈̽̈̆͜t̵̼̥̗̜̻̮͖̏̄͒̒̽̂̌̚ë̷̛̺̥̮͙̱̯̮́͆͑͐̃̉ͅl̷͈̹̫͛̍̐̓͜͠ ̸͈͔̯̳̜̖̮́́̎͘͘n̵̪̹̟̣̱̈͆̍̓̕ų̸̛̟̜̝͉̣͆̊̔̂v̸̥̪͙̩͔̝̭̳̌͌ë̴̩̼́̓͆̌̚̕n̷̳̜͖̲̬͇͇͗̎̓́͐̔͝ą̵͔̮̝̬̹̤̓̈́͐̈́̔̽̕ ̶̦̠̱̙̊̾̐͋͛̈̚m̶̡̰̳͈̲̹̎͂́͗ȃ̸̤̰͆r̶̖͚̤͐̕͜͜ ̷̨̓s̶̝̼̖͆̿̕h̶̡͊̄̽̍̽͗͋a̸̡͔͉̋̅̃̊͗͝͝l̷̦̗͓̈́̓̌́ạ̷̭͈̣̃̀͗̓͝s̸̃͛͘͜h̵̼͐͗́ä̶̤̳̮̫̞͈̪̯́ _ .̶̼̊̄  _ Ë̸̢̢̮̯́͆͝s̵̛̻̪̫̰̺̍̊h̵̘̬̱̱͕̆̋'̵̛̼͙̱̐͑̆̓̑á̶͎̗n̵̩̜̠͛͆̕ ̶̙̼̲̲͇̈̃̏̓̉͠ĭ̶̡̯͎͎͇̈́̌̈́̾͝s̴̗̿̈̂̂a̸̙͉͗̋̄̚͠l̶̦͔̎̇͐̅͘͝ą̴̨̞͙̫͇͎͗̍͂̎́͝͠ ̵̨̦̆̊̿̉̿͆̿̚r̵̛͎̩̻͓̊̆̐̄̚a̶̻̼͙͙͊͋̈́̿͊͂̕ͅ. _ [1]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Elvish** :
> 
> [1] _Esh'an tel nuvena mar shalasha. Esh'an isala ra._ \- They do not want your protection. But they need it.[⇑]
> 
> .
> 
>  **Flips a table** SOFT CASSANDRA TELLING BEDTIME STORIES AWKWARDLY IS MY AESTHETIC
> 
> I have several assignments due this week and next week, so next chapter may be a bit shorter, but we'll see :D
> 
> Man - srsly - fuck orlais, bunch of asshats -
> 
> The chevalier thing really pisses me off ughhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh - luckily I speak french, so if I want to curse them out I can do it in their language huehuehuehuehuehuehue
> 
> Thank you for reading <3 See you next week~


	6. I will not say ‘Do not weep’

_For not all tears are evil._

.

It is silent in this part of the Dales. While the smoke of the civil war can be seen in the far distance, no sound travels over. The wind blows in the wrong direction.

Athros kneels at the riverbed, surrounded by purple flowers - their colours unaffected by his dream. He picks one, white sap slowly seeping out of the stem to coat the tear. He presses his nail into the stem. He picks another flower, and threads it into the first. Repeating this process, he lets his anxiety and grief be washed away by the gurgling of water, the chirping of cicadas, and the soft petals beneath his fingers.

He finishes the flower crown with a final push of a stem into another, frowning at the final result. It is messy, uneven. Nevertheless, it is his best to date.

He stands, bringing the crown to the sapling he had planted by the riverside - tied loosely to an oaken staff, placing the flowers at the base beside a cedar branch. 

Amae’s ashes now lay below the sapling, their new purpose to be used as nutrients for the tree. 

He kneels and bows to the grave. Var Bellanaris is too far for the Inquisition to reach for now - too far south, too deep in the civil war’s affected land - he couldn’t get her to their sacred burial grounds.

“O Falon'Din,” Athros mutters, eyes closed, palms on the ground in front of the grave. “Lethanavi — Friend to the Dead. Guide her feet, calm her soul,” his breath catches, his final words but whispers for only the god to know, “please lead her to her rest. Let her -" a tear falls freely from his face down to the ground below, “let her be a spirit of knowledge, to continue what she loved in life after death.”

He bows once again, resting his head on the ground, the pendant hanging heavy from his neck. He straightens, and stays where he is, staring blankly at the tree. 

The wind howls, catching his hair, trying to take him with it. He stays, unmoved.

“Amae,” he says finally, a croak. He pauses, shutting his eyes, before amending himself, “ _Mamae_ … This is… this is not goodbye. I’ll be -” he gently touches a blooming leaf on the sapling, “I’ll come back to visit you.” 

He stands, the world spinning. Still, his feet remain planted, and he somehow manages to walk over to where Cassandra, Solas, and Varric had been watching from a distance. 

Cassandra straightens as he approaches, a certain mix of concern and hesitance upon her face as she kneels down. “How are you feeling, Athros?” 

“I’m fi-'' The lie dies on his tongue, and he clutches at his chest. “I - I feel empty,” he admits, eyes unable to focus on anything. “Like I don’t have anything anymore.”

Cassandra’s face crumples slightly, hands raised with reluctance, twitching before falling upon his shoulders. “I wish I had the right words, Athros, but there is nothing I can say that could make this go away. Just know,” she pauses, hands squeezing his shoulders minutely harder, “I will be here for you if you need me.”

“Loss is never easy,” Varric mutters, eyes distant. “Everyone needs help and support during times like these.” His eyes focus, and he comes to stand beside Cassandra, placing his own hand on Athros’ shoulder. “I’ll be here for you too, Edel.” 

Solas says nothing, coming to kneel near Athros as well. No touch or words are necessary for the mage to express that he too would be there. Still, his eyes shift past Athros to gaze at the grave, and his expression twists. “May I pay my respects?”

Athros turns, purple petals swaying in the evening sun catching his eyes. He wordlessly nods.

“I must ask for her name, _da’len_ , I am afraid I had not asked beforehand.” Solas stands to his full height, followed by Cassandra and Varric, who both turn to Athros with the realisation - that they had never asked before either.

“Her name _was_ Amae,” Athros mutters, eyes trained as the sunset’s light catches the river at _just_ the right angle to make it appear as if it had caught fire. “Amaeliath Lavellan.”

An unspoken understanding ripples through his companions, trailed by a wordless question that no one would ask.

Solas nods, and walks over to the grave, kneeling in front of the tree. He bows, eyes shut. His mouth opens, and the wind shifts and howls, covering up his words in its cries. He bows again, and stands. 

Varric and Cassandra both take their turns after that. 

As if it had a sudden change of heart, the wind does not wish to keep their words secrets, and stills. Athros hears every single one of their words, and both their promises.

“I swear I will do everything in my power to keep your child safe. You have my word,” was Cassandra’s - Varric’s had been a variation of the same promise.

He had felt no shame in bawling into her arms that night, his cries echoing into the pitch black dark of the plains.

.

It is sundown when their horses approach the gates of Haven, the tents having clearly increased in number during the two months that they had been absent. They left their horses at the stables, Athros noting that the horse master Harrit had still not arrived. Then again, it hadn’t been more than a week since the commander’s forces had finished building the towers. He turns - following Varric through the large wooden gate. Besides, the horse master _had_ said that he would need a few days to settle his farmers back into his land, and to say goodbye to his family.

Athros yawns, sleepiness rendering his eyelids heavy. Ever since the dream he’d had in Val Royeaux, he hadn’t had any nights without nightmares. First had been the heads in the Dales, then there had been falling - with no view of land in sight, followed by dark cramped spaces that seemed to constrict - tightening and boxing him in until he suffocated. Those had been the least disturbing of the dreams.

“I can find you in the Fade,” Solas had offered, “travel to you and pull you from your nightmares.”

Athros had agreed, but whenever Solas would shield him from his night terrors, the nightmare the next night would be even more graphic, all the more lucid and _terrifying_. Athros asked Solas to stop after three nights, and the nightmares went back to manageable.

“You should go rest, Edel,” Varric mutters as they reach the top of the stairs. “I’m sure that the Seeker can fill Leliana and the others in by herself.” 

“No, I -” he stifles a yawn, “ I’d like to talk to Leliana about something.”

Varric chuckles. “I’m sure it can wait until morning.”

Athros gives Varric a tired smile, but runs after Cassandra, barely making it by her side before arriving at the Chantry. She glances at him, and a small frown forms on her face. “You should go rest, Athros, you have not slept properly in days.”

For the second time that night, Athros shakes his head, “I want to talk to Leliana.”

Cassandra opens her mouth, as if to argue, but footsteps coming in their direction cuts her off, with Josephine’s distinctly Antivan accent echoing down the chantry hall. “You’ve returned! Thank goodness, we heard of your… unfortunate encounter in Val Royeaux.”

“The news spread that quickly?” Athros asks.

Leliana’s voice pipes up from farther ahead. “Not quite. My agents sent word ahead… although there have been claimed sightings and rumours that the Inquisition’s ‘Herald of Andraste’ is an elven child.”

“I’m never getting rid of that title, am I?” Athros mumbles miserably, before looking up at Leliana. “Oh, uh, so you heard that the templars…”

All three of them nod. 

“It’s a shame that the templars have abandoned their senses as well as the capital,” the Commander mutters.

“It is not unexpected,” Leliana hums. “We should move onto convincing the mages -”

“No, I don’t believe that all the templars think like the Lord Seeker. There must be _some_ in the order who -”

“Commander, we don’t have enough time, the mages already invited us to Redcliffe-”

“I refuse to believe -”

Cassandra sighs. “It may be harder than you think, Commander. Lord Seeker Lucius is not the man that I remember.”

Leliana starts walking back towards the war room. “He has taken the templars somewhere, to do _something_. We still cannot be sure of what it is, my reports have been,” she pauses, “very odd.”

“The templars are a united force who are used to working together. The mages could be ten times more fractured.”

Josephine coughs lightly. “In any case, we now have the opening to talk to the both of them.” She turns to Cassandra. “You should make the decision soon.”

There’s a pause as all eyes turn to the Seeker. She glances down at Athros for a moment, before nodding. “I’ll discuss it with the Herald - Athros - before coming to a conclusion. The mages have offered their allegiance, but they are rather desperate. And, the templars do concern me.”

“Could we go near them without being attacked?” Athros mutters, glancing at the flaming sword symbol on the Commander’s bracer as the metal catches the torchlight.

“It is unlikely, I do not believe we have enough influence yet.” Cullen looks over at Josephine, who shakes her head. 

“We’ll need more agents in more places, you can help with that during your missions.” Leliana stops walking, the group halting behind her. “In the meantime, we should figure out what the mages’ terms of allegiance would be.”

For once, Cullen has no rebuke, and nods. “Meanwhile, I’ll reach out to the templars I believe could be swayed.” With that, he bows lightly, and walks back in the direction of the war room.

Josephine offers Athros a smile. “If possible, I’d appreciate it if you could stop by my office. I have some things I’d like to discuss.” With curtsey, she also walks deeper into the chantry, disappearing behind a door and - is that Mother Giselle?

“A moment before you go,” Leliana’s Orlesian lilt snaps his attention back to the spymaster. “Several months ago, the Grey Wardens of Ferelden vanished. I sent word to those in Orlais, but they have also disappeared.”

“Is that not what they do?” Cassandra asks. “The archdemon is a decade dead.”

Leliana nods. “Yes, and while ordinarily I wouldn’t even consider that they were involved, the timing is certainly… curious.” There’s the slightest strain in her voice, even while her face remains completely passive.

“We’ve spoken about this already, Leliana.” Cassandra sighs. “There’s no proof that they _are_ involved.”

“Even if you dismiss my suspicions, Cassandra, I cannot ignore them.” Leliana’s voice tightens. “Two days ago, my agents in the Hinterlands heard news of a Grey Warden. He goes by the name of Blackwall - if you have the opportunity, _please_ seek him out.”

Something about the way she speaks, or possibly the slightest hint of hidden fear in her eyes, triggers a memory.

_“But she wasn’t alone? Was she?” Athros asks as he and Amae walk away from the statue, a golden plaque with the name ‘Warden Commander Mahariel’ inscribed upon it._

_“Of course not,_ da’len _. Like any hero - she had her companions to help her through her struggles.” Amae laughs, peeling the remains of the apple with her knife before cutting it into slices. “Behind every great champion lies a team of friends, and of support.”_

_“Like the Champion of Kirkwall?” Athros asks, happily accepting the apple slices when Amae offers._

_“Exactly. People with a lot of weight on their shoulders need to share that weight with people who they can trust. Lest it becomes so heavy that they collapse, and can ne’er stand again.”_

_Athros hums, finishing off his first slice with a gulp. “Were they elves?”_

_“One of them was. An Antivan by the name of Zevran. The others were humans, one dwarf, one qunari.”_

_Athros stops chewing halfway through his bite, looking up at his mother with owlish eyes. “She worked with humans?”_

_Amae snorts, ruffling his hair. “Of course. The whole of Ferelden was in danger. People from every race helped.”_

_“But, Amae, you said that humans are dangerous. Why would they help her?”_

_Amae stops in her tracks. Athros looks up at her in confusion as she sighs, rubbing the back of her neck. “It is unfortunate,_ da’len _, but as elves - dalish elves at that - we are always in danger.” She kneels in front of Athros, holding his cheek. “Humans are the most abundant - due to their sheer number, there will always be more bad humans than bad elves. But that doesn’t mean that all humans are bad, just as all elves aren’t good. Most people just try to live through their lives quietly, without conflict. A few will abuse their power, push down the oppressed even farther.”_

_“Oppressed?”_

_“Those who are subject to harsh treatment. People who are under the thumbs of those who would use their authority or power in an unfair, abusive, cruel, or needlessly controlling way._ Da’len _, for every person who would oppress us, there is another - somewhere out there - who would fight for us.”_

_“So…”_

_“So be wary. Do not trust too easily, but do not be too quick to judge.” She smiles. “You are already very wise for your age, Athros, trust your instincts.”_

_“... After they stopped needing her, did her companions stay?”_

_Amae blinks, and then stands. “Yes,_ da’len _. Especially her closest companion.”_

_“Closest companion?”_

_“Leliana, a bard.” She resumes her walk, Athros trailing after her. “Throughout their travels they became inseparable. There are rumours that, not long after the archdemon was slain, Ashall Mahariel and a red haired human were seen near the Sabrae clan, requesting marriage.”_

_“Oh…” Athros turns his attention away from his mother, ahead to where the Waking Sea lies. “Amae, you aren’t married, right?”_

_She snorts again, “I don’t have the time, nor patience to deal with any man or woman,_ da’len _, much less a husband or wife.”_

_“But I’m here!” Athros whines, yelping as he’s picked up and slung over Amae’s shoulder._

_“You’re the exception, little one.”_

_Whatever complaints he’d had die in his throat, and despite himself, a grin forms on his face. “Of course!”_

_Amae laughs, and adjusts him, raising him so that he sits on her shoulders. “In the meanwhile, da’len, let’s work on your elvish._

_“_ Uilen ir’rodhe min’annar,[1] _” he chirps._

_“_ Sathan dirtha felas’el,  [2] _” she laughs._

_._

“- We will see if we can find him during our visit to Redcliffe,” Cassandra finally concedes.

“Thank you. Perhaps he may be able to put my mind at ease.”

“And if he can’t?”

“Then there may be more going on than we thought.” With Leliana’s final words, Cassandra nods. 

Looking down at Athros she smiles slightly. “You will need to rest, Athros. Do you - do you wish for me to tell you a story again tonight?” 

Athros blinks a few times, slowly coming back to reality, away from his memory. “Ah - yes, please.”

“Come along then.” Cassandra starts for the chantry’s front door.

“I’ll catch up, I need to talk with Leliana for a bit,” Athros quickly says, gaining a slight nod, before the door opens. A cold rush of air sweeps in from the outside, but soon the door shuts with a slam behind Cassandra, and the wind is gone.

Leliana looks down at him, an easy smile on her face that doesn’t quite reach her eyes. “Well?”

“Um, I wanted to ask if you had any letters from my… from Clan Lavellan?”

Her eyes soften and her head shakes slightly. “I’m afraid not. Do you have a note that you’d like me to send by raven?”

The tight feeling of disappointment constricts his chest like a snake, threatening to break him in half. He shakes his head, his own hollow smile plastered in place. “No, it’s best if they aren’t involved. Amae said that… well. They’d be in danger.” 

“If you’re sure,” she hesitates a moment, but straightens, bowing her head slightly, “I’m certain that Cassandra awaits you. Best not keep her waiting.” 

She turns, and the overwhelming urge to say _something_ nearly splits Athros’ chest open. There’s a second, where two decisions are laid out before Athros. Two paths, not yet walked. Walk one, and there’s no going back. _Would she hate him for assuming? It’s not like he actually knew either of them_. But, far, far back where not even a demon would be able to find it - the envy of not knowing sticks to his lungs like flem. The luxurious but painful torture of hope, that a person one loves may still be alive.

He runs forward and grabs onto her sleeve. She stops.

“Don’t give up hope. Amae told me stories of the Hero of Ferelden… I’m sure she’s alright.”

He doesn’t dare look up, instead opting to turn tail and run towards the large wooden door. The cold air hits him full force as he leaves the warmth of the Chantry. He accidentally looks back, just for a moment, and what he sees could have been delirium. It could have simply been a trick of the firelight from the torches, or the speed at which he turned his head that warped it. But, he’s half certain that Leliana was smiling.

It looked genuine.

.

_A̵̢̩̬̪̯̠͊̒͌s̸̡̖̰͙̿̅̓͊̚h̶̤̃ͅ ̶͈̣m̷̱̱̳͇̼̬̑i̷̲̊̌̋’̶̨̥͓̟̒͆̐̀ͅń̷͓̓̃ȧ̷̗̬̤s̶̞̬͔͖̠̏̈́̓’̷͕͈̽̂͗̆͠ş̷̛̥̰͠ã̶̼̝̝̺̗͛͒̄̇̚ͅl̵̛̮̹͊’̴̧͈͇̱̌́̓̕̚ỉ̸̫̬͕͈̪̄͗ṇ̶̢̛̮̭͋̚ȧ̷͔͙͛͋͘n̸͖̝̿̇͠ ̶̞̯̥͕̗̽͝.[3] _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Elvish:**
> 
> [1] _Uilen ir’rodhe min’annar_ \- The apples are very tasty this year[⇑]  
> [2] _Sathan dirtha felas’el_ \- Please speak more slowly.[⇑]  
> [3] _Ash mi’nas’sal’inan_ \- Her soul misses you so dearly.[⇑]
> 
> .
> 
> Hahahahaha funeral scene go brrrrrrr
> 
> A bit of a filler chapter, cause as mentioned last week I had exams this week and last week oof. If anyone knows where the chapter title comes from - kudos!
> 
> Also spent a concerning amount of time on whether Amae should've been cremated or not - and came to the conclusion that lugging around a rotting corpse for a month and a half wouldn't really be sanitary or respectful. So cremation it was. And yes, Amae is her name - i made it similar to the elven word _mamae_ on purpose mWAHAHAHAHAHAH.
> 
> Next chapter we get KREM (best boi) and some interactions with sera in addition so some more stuff huehuehuehue.
> 
> Also can we talk about elvish for a sec, cause there's a really interesting essay/analysis/Project Elvhen: Expanding the Elvhen Language by FenxShiral on AO3 which has been my lifesaver. If you're interested in the language I'd check it out ^^
> 
> Also I've decided to do this thing where I shout out fics that I enjoyed during the week between updates.  
> So ahem
> 
>  **Fic Rec of the Week:**  
>  In the Face of your Light - _by Noverture_  
>  A male solavellan time travel fic which is phenomenally written. It's a slow burn, but is oh so worth the read for her accurate portrayal of the characters, her inquisitor - Mahanon, and the mysteries behind said inquisitor and what caused the time travel in the first place. It's a bit of a long read, and is still ongoing, but if you enjoy solavellan and mysteries, I'd highly recommend it.
> 
> (come on novvie u knew this had to be my first recommendation ;) )


	7. I do not love the bright sword for its sharpness

_ Nor the arrow for its swiftness, nor the warrior for his glory. I love only that which they defend. _

.

The forest is silent in the early morning, the sky blushing pink as Athros picks his way across the snowy terrain, hauling a bag of iron and elfroot over his shoulder. Breath turning to vapor as it exits his nostrils, he settles on the ground in front of the frozen lake.

Most of the Commander’s soldiers have begun to wake, leaving their tents to put on their armour and settle by the fires for some breakfast before training. None of them notice Athros on the other side of the ice, tracing their movements with eyes cupped by dark circles.

The nightmares continue.

He sighs, eyes shut, but feeling the warmth of his breath nearly crystallise in the mountain air. It really is much too cold up here. He listens to the distant sound of boisterous laughter - the beginnings of clashing swords from those who had gotten up earlier… though not as early as Athros had. He catches the glints of metal as they meet, and wonders how any of them could be here.

Perhaps they’re in the same boat as he is. Athros, so far, seems to be the only one with the ability to seal the rifts, only  _ he _ can seal the Breach, and bring an end to all the suffering it has brought. Perhaps the soldiers are also here out of a sense of duty, out of a sense of obligation to protect the world and those they care about from the chaos.

But, he can’t help but think, no one in their right mind would  _ want _ to be in this conflict. He supposes that he could  _ maybe _ understand the wish to fight demons. Perhaps with fewer demons, there’ll be fewer abominations… but then again - Amae had said that even if you kill a demon, they’ll simply reform. You could not rid the world of demons. Ever.

No - what he does not understand is why the soldiers would want to fight  _ people _ . Thus far - Athros and the others had avoided the rogue templars and mages as much as physically possible. They would make large detours to bypass even lone travellers, all to avoid bloodshed. 

Athros knew this was for his benefit. He knew that if he was older, they wouldn’t bother. Time is precious, he’d be an adult, he could ‘suck it up’. He  _ knows _ that the scouts and soldiers that he sees around the Inquisition camps, both here and out in the Hinterlands, are actively facing off with other people, and killing them. In the name of ‘justice’, ‘safety’, ‘necessity’, and various other words that are apparently worth as much as a life. 

‘For the Herald’ had been one. 

Athros lifts his scarf, rewrapping it so that it covers his cold nose. 

‘For the Herald’... for  _ him _ . They invoked  _ his  _ name as one of those words. Used -  _ use _ \- him as an excuse. 

Athros clenches his fists, standing up abruptly. 

_ Why? Why would they do that? _ He grabs the sack of iron and begins dragging it towards the gates he had crossed to enter the forested area. Whether they understood the implications or not, they  _ dedicated _ their kills to him. He starts running _. I don’t want people to die - I don’t want anyone to die _ . 

Stopping at the gates, he takes a moment to catch his breath, vapor escaping through his scarf.  _ Everyone has someone who loves them _ \- those had been Amae’s words. Her reason for avoiding people.  _ If you avoid them, you avoid conflict. If we avoid conflict, I don’t have to tear a son or daughter away from their family. A wife or husband from their spouse. A mother or father from their children _ . Athros’ hand hovers over his pendant. 

Clearly, whoever had caused the explosion at the Temple of Sacred Ashes had not had the same forethought. Or perhaps they reveled in the chaos, in the flowers of pain and anguish that bloomed in the hundreds of witnesses, in those who had lost someone. 

In him.

“Excuse me?”

Athros’ head snaps up, blinking at the sunrise backed figure, reflexively shrinking into his scarf. 

A human steps out from the shade of a tree, a pack slung over his shoulder. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you.” He stops a ways off from Athros, his free hand coming up in a gesture akin to surrender. “I was going to Haven when I saw you walking around by yourself…” He trails off and rakes his hand through his hair. “What I meant to say was, are you alright? Are you lost?”

Athros looks the man up and down, then hesitantly shakes his head. 

“That’s good,” the man nods, and then looks at the small bag of iron that Athros had collected. “Well, you seem busy, I’ll leave you be.” With another nod, the man turns and heads in the direction of Haven’s gates.

Athros blinks after him. He seemed… nice _. _

With a shrug, he gathers his bag and continues down the snowy path, following after the man. Upon reaching the forest’s edge, he stops, making sure that his hood rests securely over his ears and hides his face if he angled it correctly. Combined with the large scarf, unless someone physically removed them, no one would be able to see him… or at least identify him at a glance.

He’d found out the difficult way that it was nigh impossible to walk through Haven without getting stared at if he didn’t do his utmost to be small and unassuming. By now, the entire town and all of its visitors and recruits had heard that a curly haired elven child carries the ‘divine mark of Andraste’. Those who cared enough to ask more - which are, unfortunately, most of them - hear of green eyes the same colour as the Breach, others of his unusually angled ears.

Maybe, if they stopped to consider him, and consider his height, then the soldiers, servants, and few early rising visitors would realise that it was him. But so far, the new hooded coat and scarf seemed to do the trick, and he was able to sneak the bag of iron to Quartermaster Threnn without her realising.

Grabbing the armfull of elfroot that he had kept in the bag with the iron, he passes by the tavern, glancing in to see Sera, her legs kicked up onto a table, a rather large tankard next to them - and a disgruntled looking Solas sitting opposite her. He smiles slightly, making a mental note to go talk to her, before he resumes his walk towards the apothecary. 

Adan apparently has a reputation for being short-tempered and quick to snap according to Adani - but the man hadn’t been like that with him so far. 

“If I may say,” Adani had said as she folded the fabrics that the scouts had collected, “apothecary Adan is one of the few people around here who actually treats you like a child.” 

“Eh?” 

“Don’t take it the wrong way, Athros, but sometimes…” She sighed as she pushed a pile to the side, glancing at him. “Sometimes it feels like a lot of the folks ‘round here forget that you’re still practically a babe.” 

Athros had spluttered in response, but… she wasn’t wrong.

“What are you doing up so early?” Adan doesn’t move away from his potion stand as Athros enters, waddling over to the basket of elfroot. 

“Wanted to walk.”

“You had nightmares again then?” Athros frowns to himself. “Don’t bother denying it, the Seeker told me. Requested something that could help, but I don’t like giving sleeping draughts to children. They can get addicted.” Adan finally turns, crossing his arms as he regards Athros’ eyebags critically. “From the look of you, though, I may just take the risk.”

“I’m fine… really.” Athros mutters, sinking into his scarf as if it would help him vanish from Adan’s presence.

“If you say so. How’s the hand?” Athros is grateful for the human’s switch in topic, straightening as Adan angles himself so that he can keep an eye on both Athros and his potions at the same time.

“Better. It doesn’t hurt.”

“That’s good. It’s stopped spreading completely?”

“Yes.”

“Wonderful.” He stops, the room going very still and silent for a moment longer than comfortable. “Do any of those answers change when you close the rifts?”

“Ah… no… the mark tingles a little bit… and sometimes it feels a bit hot… but it doesn’t spread or  _ really _ hurt.” Athros shuffles in place as he feels Adan’s eyes boring into his soul. But there’s a shift in fabric and the feeling is gone.

“Well, if it  _ does _ start hurting, go to that bald mage, he’s more likely to have a solution than me.” 

.

After a quick farewell, Athros escapes the warmth of the house in lieu of the biting cold, skips towards the stairs that lead down to the tavern when he spots the man from earlier. The man walks up to a group of servants, who scatter as he approaches, leaving him alone. Athros stops, watching as the man sighs and starts walking towards a soldier. They exchange a few words before the soldier makes a dismissive gesture and walks away. The man massages his temple a few times, letting out another sigh, before trudging back through the snow towards the Chantry.

Finding himself oddly intrigued, Athros sneaks behind a large pile of logs, plopping himself behind them to continue watching the man. “Excuse me - who… talk… charge…” the man’s timbre carries over to the logs when a Sister passes him.

“Sorry… no time…” the Sister barely stops as she makes her reply, entering the Chantry before the man could get another word out. Despite himself, Athros feels a pang of annoyance. The man is very polite, surely  _ someone _ could answer his question…

Someone… wait. Isn’t he doing the same thing?

_ Da’len,  _ his mother’s voice echoes in his head, chiding,  _ doing nothing in the face of injustice, when you can do something, is as much of a crime as doing the deed yourself _ . 

He feels his cheek flush in shame, the hypocrisy dawning on him as yet another person ignores the man. The man had been nice when they had met in the woods as well, there was no reason to distrust him… yet merely the thought of conversing with a stranger made his hairs stand on edge, slight wisps of green magic seep from his fingers, the mark sparking beneath the bandages that Solas had insisted on placing over it.

Still, his frown grows in size when the man is brushed off by another scurrying person - _ oh it’s Adani - no, Athros, focus _ . He steels himself, and crawls off of the logs, walking around them towards the man. He is about two meters away when his feet stop against his will. 

One of the recruits is walking by, wearing the flaming sword heraldry indicative of a templar proudly on his breast.

_ Amae’s blood on the ground, magic cackles in the air as a sword is raised -  _

Run, run, run,  _ run _ \- 

“Oh, it’s you.” Athros blinks and the blood is gone. The kind man stands in front of him, blocking the view of the armour. “Glad to see you’re safe.”

“Ah - yes…” Athros' thumb repeatedly slides over the bandaged mark, his heartbeat still uncomfortably loud in his ear. “I, um…” He trails off, his voice catching. His mind feels so far away, words having been burnt and cut away by a sword that is supposed to symbolise mercy.  _ Like her eye… he can still smell the copper -  _

“Are you alright?” The man’s concerned voice breaks through the barrier, and Athros’ senses are completely returned to him.

“Yes… um, you looked like you needed help, and no one was stopping for you so…”

The concern remains on the man’s face, but he doesn’t push the topic. “Ah, yes. I’ve got a message for the Inquisition from my company commander Iron Bull.”

“A message?”

“Yes, we’ve got word of some Tevinter mercenaries gathering out on the Storm Coast. Iron Bull wants the Herald and his people to see us work in action.”

“Why?” 

The man blinks at the question. “He thinks they’re doing good work, wants to join the Inquisition.”

Yet another person who  _ wants _ to be part of the discord. Is this an adult thing he doesn’t understand yet? To crave or actively seek out conflicts to be a part of? 

Tevinter… Amae had told him of Tevinter. They had a lot of bad people, she said… but they don’t have anything to  _ do _ with the Breach that they know of. Does this Iron Bull just want to prove that he can kill? To him?  _ Why _ ? Why is the first instinct always to kill?

“What’s your name?” is the question that Athros asks instead. Because how are you supposed to ask someone those questions? 

“Cremisius Aclassi, of the Bull’s Chargers Mercenary Company. We mostly work out of Orlais and Nevarra.” The man - Cremisius - looks around again. “If you could get me an audience with the Herald, or someone who can relay the message, I would be grateful.”

“Oh… I’m… That’s actually what they’re calling me…”  _ Must he go through this every time he meets someone new _ , he asks himself miserably. 

“You?” Whatever confusion Cremesius had had, he either quickly recovers or is very good at hiding it. “I apologise, we’d assumed that the rumours had exaggerated your age.”

“Well -”

“Athros, there you are, I’ve been looking all over -'' Cassandra's voice cuts Athros off, stopping short as the seeker regards Cremesius. “Who are you?” 

“Seeker Cassandra,” Cremesius salutes without missing a beat, showing no indination nor surprise when Cassandra situates herself firmly between Athros and the mercenary. “I was sent here to deliver a message.”

“Athros, why don’t you go talk to Varric,” Cassandra says, giving him a warning stare as he opens his mouth to protest, “I’m certain he has some tales to weave.”

Athros nods, giving a small wave to Cremesius. “It was nice meeting you.”

“You as well, your worship.” The urge to cringe at the title rears its head, quickly hidden by a turn and a quick paced walk back towards his original destination. 

_ I don’t care what Solas says, I should declare it to be a sin, _ he grumbles to himself.  _ Then maybe they’ll actually listen to me. _

.

“Athy!” Sera’s call echoes in the mostly empty Tavern, compelling a glare from the nearby Solas. 

“Hi, Sera.” Athros slips between chairs, climbing onto the one facing Sera’s with a small smile.

The archer grins, stretching back, “so, this is it then?”

“... Um… what?”

“The Inquisition.”

Athros blinks, looking around the tavern again to see it rather pointedly empty. “Well, most people are working, I think.”

“Yeah, yeah, it’s all good, innit? It’s just, I thought it’d be bigger.” She snickers to herself. “Get it, cause you…” A cough. “Never mind. Point is, stopping wars should make more sovereigns than this. We need things back to normal for coins to start flowing again. Yet another reason why the Templars and Mages should be sat down.”

“I agree,” Athros mutters, being rewarded with a big grin.

“Knew you’d get it!”

“Not for money though… I don’t really care about that… but people are getting hurt.”

That has Sera go quiet, looking him up and down. “Little people, yeah? Big pomps up in their big houses and castles don’t give rats asses. Everyone’s too busy to look up, where the  _ real  _ questions are.”

Athros can’t help but giggle. “Real questions? Like how Varric’s beard fell onto his chest?” Sera pauses, giving time for Athros to add, grinning, “Though that’s a secret I don’t think the world is ready for yet.”

Sera cackles. “You’re daft yeah. Little mite made special and you’re still here. Pure baltic too, and you just wear those skins like it’s nothing!” She leans forward, a grin growing on her face. “I think I’ll like you, Herald.”

“Athros,” he corrects.

Her grin widens, “I like you even more. ‘ _ Herald _ ’.” She says the word with almost as much distaste as Athros feels for the word. “Have to do something about that.” 

  
  


.

An afternoon later of hot chocolates with Sera as she did and said every possible thing to get Solas to leave the tavern (she succeeded), visiting Varric so that he could read Athros a book, and helping Adani with chores (not that she didn’t try her damndest to get him to stop and do something else) - Athros felt tired enough to return to his room and rest with Floof. 

The raven had been rather docile, letting Athros absentmindedly pet his back and scritch the top of his head as they lay in Athros’ bed. As Athros began dozing off, Floof had simply hopped onto his back and settled there, feathers smoothed.

Time trickled on like honey through a sieve, slowly and languidly - unhurried.

It was sundown when the sound of footsteps outside his room roused Athros from his nap, the opening of the door and subsequent cold wind prompting an indignant squawk from Floof.

“Athros? Are you awake?” Solas’ words stir Athros even more, and sleep crusted eyes open slowly. Athros yawns, lifting himself slowly enough to give Floof the time to hop off of his back.

“Yeah. I’m…” he blinks a few times, his voice laced with sleep. “I’m up.” 

Solas stays in the doorway.  _ He never comes near unless he has to _ \- a thought that is quickly lost to a sleep addled mind. “Cassandra has requested that I tell you to get ready. We leave for the Storm Coast tomorrow morning.”

Athros yawns again, rubbing his eyes before looking at Solas. “The Storm Coast?”

“Yes. We are to meet a qunari called Iron Bull.”

.

  
_D̷̙͙͎̾̋̽̈ã̶̫͚̊̾͠r̶̨͋'̴̼͉̗̺̳̒m̸̢̜̝̤̋̔̋͠ḯ̴̱̠̯̯̓͋̽̔s̸̡̢̺͋a̷͈͍̓͗̾a̸̟̗͂n̸͚̹̟̾́͗̏̚'̴̛͉͍̺̯͘̕͝l̴̨͈̗͔͓̽̇e̷͎̯͉͌̇̓a̴͎̤̤͐͋ͅn̶̨̛̟̬̲͚à̶̯t̸̜̉̈́h̶̫̿̇̏͝e̶͕̻͚̪͈͋̋̕ ̴̬̣̏̽̓̑͂g̴̼̽͆̍͘͝ͅă̶̧̖̫̽͠r̶̹̦̖̓̿ą̸͕̪̌ ̶̪͍͊̓͠l̸̗͠i̵͙̹͉̬͒̉̈́̽n̴̢͕͓̊'̵̞̝̗͂p̵̰͕̗͈͚̓̾͝ṙ̵̮̖e̵̢̪̅̋a̵̖̮̞̤͒r̷̢͈̖̱̋.̸̣̐̿̿_ ̷̢̰̱͉̇̉̂[1]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Elvish:**
> 
> [1] _Dar'misaan'leanathe gara lin'prear._ \- To win wars, one needs soldiers.[⇑]
> 
> .
> 
> GUESS WHAT!?
> 
> I didn't manage to write all i wanted to on time cause of yet another assignment rip. Welp, next chapter _should_ have blackwall in addition to the iron bull but we'll have to see huehuehue
> 
> We got a lot of internal dialogue this chapter - but I think we like to see it :)
> 
> Thank you for reading, and i'll catch u next week :)
> 
>   
> **Fic rec of the week:**
> 
> [Greatly Approved](https://archiveofourown.org/works/3221774) \- damalur  
> a nice and long one-shot fic for f!hawke/varric, in which Hawke participates in a book club. The book club decides to read a book by Varric called 'The Magpie', but Varric seems strangely against it...  
> Angst, comedy, and pining - takes about an hour to read if you're taking it slow, about 10 if you're skimming, and 30 minutes if you're doing something in between. It's very well written and i highly recommend checking it out ;)

**Author's Note:**

> Updates when I can manage them ;') (used to be weekly but I've got so much going on, I run out of time. I'll try to keep them at least bimonthly)
> 
> [Tumblr](https://cdraconik.tumblr.com/)  
> [Instagram](https://www.instagram.com/cdraconik/)
> 
> Also the biggest shoutout to [Insomnia_Productions](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Insomnia_Productions) for betaing. Thanks to [Noverture](https://archiveofourown.org/users/noverture) as well for inspiring me. The both of them urged me to write this and it would not exist without them <3 Go shower them with love because they are both amazing writers!!


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